A Lonely Death Read online

  Guilt or not, Hamish’s voice sounded as clear as if it had come from a foot or so behind Rutledge’s shoulder, where Hamish had so often stood and fought. And explanations did nothing to ease the strain of knowing the voice was there, that it would speak or not as it chose, and there was nothing on God’s earth to prevent it or keep others from hearing it, even when Rutledge knew they could not. He could never be certain of anything except that Hamish had never forgiven him, just as he had never forgiven himself—even though he had never been given any choice in the matter. Hamish had taken that away too and left Rutledge to cope alone. And yet never alone.

  Trying to shut out the soft Scots words in his mind, Rutledge tried to settle to the papers on his desk, and after a time he managed to concentrate on them. He knew he would miss Cummins. There were already rumors that Inspector Mickelson would be promoted to fill his place.

  3

  Eastfield, Sussex, on the Hastings Road, July 1920

  Eastfield was neither particularly charming nor particularly important, historically or politically. It had begun as a hamlet where the road out of Hastings climbed the bluffs, leveled out, and turned eastward. A large field at that point had served as grazing for tired oxen and horses either before their descent into the town below or after their ascent from it. This common field had eventually been encircled by the huts of providers of services—a tavern to feed the drovers, a smithy to see to torn hooves, and a brothel to ease a man’s other needs. The new-built abbey at Battle had soon taken the hamlet in hand, to save the souls of its inhabitants and to charge a small fee for the hitherto free grazing.

  At the dissolution of the monasteries, the tiny village had passed into the keeping of a crony of Henry VIII’s, hardly aware of the change in ownership. By 1800, descendants of that crony had fallen on hard times, and the village found itself forgotten, though the field for grazing still served those going to and from Hastings. The fees were now collected by a self-appointed squire, who was no more than a jumped-up yeoman who saw his chance to prosper, and no one thought to formalize the new status of Eastfield in any fashion.

  It began to flourish in Victoria’s reign, selling its produce and wares to the hungry fishermen and residents of the little port where the valley broke through the ridge and swept down to the water’s edge, and as Hastings grew, so did Eastfield.

  By 1880, it boasted changes that brought in more revenue—the small firm that had built tackle, fish boxes, and other furnishings for the fishermen found that the newly acquired taste for sea bathing had brought hotels in its wake, and hotels needed a better quality of furniture to serve those who expected fine accommodations. The second stroke of good luck occurred when the Pierce brothers decided to locate their brewery in three buildings at the far end of the Hastings Road. An exiled Frenchman set up a small Latin school in the middle of the village and made a good living educating the sons and daughters of those who could now afford it.

  The brewery, the furniture making, and the Latin School gave the village an air of success. The Misses du Toit, thoroughly English daughters of the school’s founder, changed their name to Tate on the death of their father, and in 1913 passed charge of the school to a niece, Mrs. Farrell-Smith, a young widow.

  By 1900, Eastfield had doubled in population and in 1914 took great pride in furnishing a company of its sons to fight for King and Country in the Great War.

  They had received a letter of commendation from the King himself, and the brewery produced a beer it called The Rose of Picardy, which unexpectedly became very popular among soldiers and then ex-soldiers, making the Pierce Brothers Brewery, under its Arrow label, famous throughout Kent, Sussex, and Surrey.

  Content with their ordinary lives, the villagers of Eastfield saw no reason why their future shouldn’t be as peaceful as their past.

  And then on a Friday night, in July 1920, that illusion was shattered.

  William Jeffers had no inkling of his fate when he walked into The Conqueror Pub in a back street of Eastfield.

  The sign was swinging gently in the late evening breeze, squeaking a little in its iron frame. On one side of it, a vast, painted armada of Norman ships was shown anchored in an English bay—there was debate as to whether it was intended to portray Hastings or Pevensey—and on the other side, a victorious William raised his painted sword high to celebrate his famous victory over King Harold at Senlac Hill.

  The haze of tobacco smoke was already thick as the barkeep hailed the newcomer with a smiling greeting. Jeffers rarely came to drink in the pub. He was a farmer and had little time in the evenings and less money to waste in conviviality. But it had become a regular thing each year for him to mark the anniversary of the wound that had ended his military career and nearly cost him his life.

  Jeffers settled himself at a corner table with his first pint, and for the rest of the evening proceeded to drink as much as he could hold.

  He left half an hour before closing, making his way toward the church.

  The light was fading, and he sat on the low stone wall surrounding the churchyard until he had watched the sun set and the long shadows deepen into night. He was not a praying man, but he found himself saying a prayer for the dead. Most of the dead on his mind weren’t lying here in St. Mary’s, they were in France, but it would do.

  At length he stood up and made his way to the outskirts of the village, where Abbey Street met the Hastings Road. He was only slightly tipsy, he told himself. He had to rise at half past four in the morning to milk the cows, but this anniversary was more important than duty. The hole in his chest was just a rough and ugly scar now, but it sometimes ached, as if it hadn’t healed. Four years. The flesh had surely forgot the pain and the terror and the weakness from loss of blood. But the mind hadn’t. The mind never forgot. And so he tried to drink himself into oblivion.

  He never quite got there.

  He tripped on a stone, recovered his balance, and walked on. The farm was barely a mile away, but tonight the road seemed twice as long. Overhead the stars were so bright he felt he could hear them. His grandfather always said to him when he was a lad, “Listen to the stars, Willie. Can you hear them? Just listen.”

  And he would listen, over the ordinary night sounds of rats in the feed bins or a stoat hunting in the hedgerow, a horse moving in its stall. He could have sworn he heard them.

  A stone rattled on the road behind him, and he turned to see what was there. Nothing but his imagination. At this hour of the night, he had the road to himself.

  His mind was clouded with the beer he’d drunk. His wife would have something to say about that. He shook his head to clear it, but it was no use.

  He tripped again, and swore.

  A voice quietly called his name. Jeffers whirled to see who it was, peering through the darkness, but for the life of him he couldn’t bring the pale face into focus.

  “Do I know you?” he asked after a moment.

  “You did. Once.”

  “Sorry. I don’t remember.”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  Jeffers nodded. “Coming this way?”

  “No. Good night.”

  He turned and plodded on, leaving the man standing there. He wanted his bed, now. The beer was making him sick.

  Something flashed briefly in the starlight, seeming to fly over his head. And then it had him by the throat, and he was fighting for breath, twisting and shifting furiously, but the thing at his throat bit all the harder, and in the end it was no use.

  William Jeffers was the first man to die.

  Three nights later, Jimmy Roper was in his barn, sitting up with a colicky cow. Dandelion had always been prone to the ailment, with a temperament that was easily unsettled, but she was his best milker and worth the trouble to keep her healthy. Her calves carried that trait, and she had done much to improve the quality of the dairy herd.

  He was tired. It had been a long day, and it would be longer still before he could seek his bed. But he had learned patie
nce after taking over the farm from his ailing father. One waited for cattle and for crops and for time to shear. One waited for sun and for rain and for a still day to harvest. If he’d had a choice he would have worked at the brewery, but as an only son, he had had to fill his father’s shoes.

  He heard the squeak of the barn door and leaned around the edge of the stall, to see who was there. “Pa? Is that you? I told you I’d come to your room as soon as I saw to things here.”

  There was no answer. His father shouldn’t have walked that far. He’d be out of breath, shaking.

  Roper got to his feet, feeling a tingle in one leg from crouching there by Dandelion until his foot had gone to sleep under him. Picking up his lantern, he walked down the aisle, past the stalls where his three horses dozed, undisturbed by their temporary neighbor’s restlessness, and saw that the outer door was open several inches—but there was no one inside the barn after all. Had his father had a fainting spell?

  Crossing quickly to the door, he peered outside and saw that someone was standing a little distance away in the shadow of the cowshed. Not his father, then—this was someone taller, straighter, younger. He could just make out the man’s features, but they meant nothing to him. Someone needing work, then. In the past six months he could have hired a dozen men like this, walking the roads, footsore and hopeful. But the farm could barely keep his own family and that of one laborer, and he had come to hate turning hope into hopelessness. He put off the moment of decision.

  “Looking for me?” Roper asked, then went on quickly. “Sorry, I’m attending a cow. Can it wait?”

  “It can wait,” the man said. “Go back to your cow.”

  Roper nodded and left the door ajar, out of courtesy.

  Dandelion was on her feet when he got back to her stall, mouthing the hay he had put in the manger for her, looking at him with what he swore was mischief in her dark eyes. “You just wanted company, then, did you?” he said, scratching her between her horns. “Too good for the yard, that’s what you are.” He’d long suspected that it was true—she had been sickly in her first year and kept in the stall where she was petted and made much of, and even now preferred the barn. “All right, you can stay here the night, but I’m going to bed.” He stepped back, studying her for a moment to be sure she was recovered.

  One of the horses snorted, moving uneasily in his stall. And then Roper was startled by a sound just behind him. Before he could turn, something flashed before his eyes, bright in the lantern’s glow, tightening around his throat before he could put up his hands to protect himself. It cut into the skin with such force he could feel blood trickling down his neck. Dandelion jerked away, moving to the back of the stall, the whites of her eyes showing her fear, but he was beyond worrying about her, fighting for his life with the breath left in him. Strong as he was, the man behind him had a fearsome strength. And then Roper was on his knees on the hard-packed earthen floor, aware that he didn’t have a chance in hell. A last fleeting thought as he died was for the lantern, and a dread that it had overturned in the struggle.

  And Jimmy Roper became the second victim.

  The third to die was the son of the present owner of the Pierce family’s brewery. It occupied three stone buildings that had once belonged to the abbey and had fallen into ruin. But the abbot had built well, and Pierce’s grandfather had bought them, renovated them, and made his fortune from them. The brewery stood on the inland side of Eastfield, where the road up from Hastings turned toward Battle, and in the beginning the family had occupied quarters in the third building, but expansion had put paid to that, and prosperity had brought them a fine house on Abbey Street.

  That was a generation ago, and Tyrell Pierce, Anthony’s father, had become a man to reckon with in the community. Anthony himself had come home from the war with one leg, but that hadn’t prevented him from taking his place in the firm, continuing his rise through the ranks from the driver of the dray to assistant to the brewmaster. His father was a strong believer in an owner’s intimate knowledge of each position in the yard and in the brew house.

  On this night—the third since Jimmy Roper’s death—Anthony Pierce had gone back to the brew house to look at one of the temperature gauges on the new kettle. It had been playing up and must either be repaired or replaced on the morrow. The foreman had tinkered with it earlier, with no success, and after dinner Anthony had strolled down to have a go at it, certain that it could be salvaged. His father had spoken to a supplier in London who had informed him that it would require three days to find and ship the new gauge, and that would mean that the current batch of mash would have to be dumped, at a loss.

  He had always liked the smell of the brew house, almost a sour odor, rich and thick on a warm night. The door was never locked, and lighting his lantern, he walked in, climbed to the first floor, and went to the bench where the foreman had left his tools. Setting the lamp there, he walked over to study the offending piece of equipment.

  After working with it for some minutes, he stepped back. There was no hope of repairing it. The foreman had been right. If it went now, they would just have to absorb the loss of this one kettle, clean it out, and wait for the new gauge to arrive before starting it up again. Twelve more hours, that’s all they needed. And if luck was with them . . .

  He shook his head, and then put his tools back on the bench.

  Anthony Pierce had served as an officer in the war and was accustomed to leading men. He was popular enough with the brewery workers, and when he heard the outer door on the ground floor open with its familiar scraping sound, he called out, “I’m up here. Is that you, Fred? It’s hopeless. I’ll drive to London tomorrow myself, and see if I can expedite replacing the damned thing.”

  But the man who appeared on the stairs, his footfalls steady on the treads, was a stranger, not the brewmaster. Pierce frowned, said, “This building is closed to outsiders. Is there something you wanted?”

  The man said, “Not really. I thought you might remember me.”

  Thinking the man was looking for work, Pierce said, “Is it help you need?”

  “No. I’m here for old time’s sake.”

  “Well, I’m just closing up. Walk down with me.” He limped toward the man, wondering for a moment if he’d served with him. But the face wasn’t familiar at all. And although he was dressed plainly, his clothes were of good quality. Not money then—he wasn’t looking for work.

  When Pierce reached the wooden stairs, the man moved aside. “You’ve got a new leg, I see. Why don’t you go first?”

  Pierce was reluctant, but he said only, “All right,” and started down, one hand on the rail. He could hear the footfalls of the man behind him, almost pressing on his heels, and he felt a sudden unease. He told himself it was only because the cursed leg was new and he was still nervous about falling.

  They had reached the ground floor, and Pierce crossed to the heavy door, his hand already out to push it wide, when he realized that there was something wrong. He was on the point of turning to order the other man to precede him into the alley between the brew house and the storage sheds when he saw the wire flash in front of his eyes.

  He put up a good fight for a man with one false leg. But of course it was no use. He was no match for his murderer. The last thing he heard was a harsh whisper almost in his ear, and then nothing.

  When the first of the workmen arrived the next morning, he was lying on the stone floor within a few feet of the door, his body already cold.

  4

  Rutledge found a letter waiting for him in his flat. As he picked up the envelope from the floor, he recognized the handwriting at once. Setting his hat on the table by the door, he crossed to a window, opening the envelope as he went and pulling out the single sheet inside. He could feel the tension in his mind that was Hamish, and tried to ignore it as he spread the sheet wide.

  There was no salutation.

  I’m writing to say good-bye. My decision has been made and by the time you read this, there w
ill be no turning back. I have tried, Ian. But the war changed me, it changed my family, it changed everything, and finding my way again to what I knew before isn’t possible. I went to Dr. Fleming, as you suggested, but he couldn’t help me. I think after so much time, there’s no real answer to be had. But he is a good man, and he did his best for me. I want you to know that. I have seen to financial matters, my wife will be taken care of, and I think she will be relieved not to have to deal with me. The nightmares are worse, and encroaching deafness from the guns is a frightful thing. It isolates a person, and I was already isolated. My wife must shout at me to ask the simplest questions, and even so I can barely hear her voice. Tenderness is impossible, and she sleeps in another room now so that I won’t keep her awake with my tossing and turning and the screams I don’t remember in the morning, but she does. We hardly knew each other when we married in 1914, and we never had a chance to build that common ground that might have seen us through. I’m tired, Ian, I can’t tell you how tired. And this is the only way to peace I can see. Forgive me, if you can. Pray for me if you will. But know that I will be happier out of this misery, and I have not decided that lightly. Fare thee well, my friend. I hope that you will see your way clear where I have not. You didn’t marry your Jean after all, and that may be your salvation. I have watched someone I believed I loved more than life itself withdraw a little more each day, until there’s only hurt and confusion left. It would break my heart, if it weren’t already broken. So good-bye, and may God have mercy on both of us.

  It was signed Max.

  Rutledge stared at the letter in his hand, and then slowly reread it. It was dated two days ago. Too late. Far too late.

  Maxwell Hume had been a captain of artillery whom Rutledge had come to know well at the start of the war. A career man, he was an experienced and able officer, liked by his troops and his superiors. Early in the war, the two men had shared their first leave, staying in a shell of a château, unable to find transportation to Paris or London—five days where their friendship had been cemented with laughter and more than a little wine salvaged from the destroyed cellars. The time had passed quickly, both men still able to see in the other an odd reflection of himself as he was before the war. And yet they had been as different as night and day. Max had possessed a mad sense of humor—“All artillerymen are mad. Just look at Napoleon”— while Rutledge had been blessed with a level head that kept both of them from breaking their necks in Max’s impromptu dares amongst the chimney pots or on the half-missing staircase or wherever else his wild fancy took them.