The Black Ascot Read online

  She looked up at Rutledge, her expression suddenly torn between fear and anger. “Are you going to kill him?”

  “No,” he told her firmly. “He didn’t harm you.” And in the same instant, he heard the man starting down the first of the ladders.

  “He didn’t wait for me to call to him. Go!”

  She scrambled toward the steps, casting a last glance over her shoulder, and almost took the first step too fast.

  “Careful!” he admonished. “You’ve done well. Take your time.”

  And she slowed, a hand flat against the wall beside her, her footsteps echoing against the medieval stone as she disappeared around the curve.

  He looked up. The man was halfway down the first ladder. It was all that mattered now.

  “’Ware!” Hamish’s voice was loud in the confines of the tower.

  Rutledge heard the clatter in the same instant, and it was growing louder with every second. Over his head someone was swearing.

  The man had lost his grip on the shotgun, and it was flying down to the platform where he was still standing, still looking up.

  He wheeled and reached the steps in one long stride, letting the weight of his body slide his shoulders along the stone wall. He had barely turned the first spiral when the shotgun hit the platform he’d just left. It went off with a deafening roar in that confined space, and he could hear the shot ricocheting around the tiny chamber.

  “Rutledge?” the man on the stairs shouted.

  “I’m here,” he replied, cupping his hands so that his voice carried. And then he went on down the stairs, collecting his heavy coat as he passed the little table in the entry. The girl was nowhere to be seen, not in that space beneath the tower nor in the nave, but he could see a shaft of pale sunlight where she had left the porch door wide open. He went over to shut it, and a heavyset man in uniform cannoned into him.

  “Who the hell are you?” Constable Biggins demanded, fury in his face and voice.

  Rutledge took out his identification and passed it to the Constable. “The girl’s uncle stopped me at the edge of town and told me what was happening. Is she all right? She had rather a rough time of it.” He looked over his shoulder toward the tower. “And if you want this to end peacefully,” he said rapidly, “you’ll go back outside and clear away anyone else out there. I want the churchyard empty when I come out, and my motorcar standing ready by the front gate.”

  Constable Biggins opened his mouth, but Rutledge said in a low voice that brooked no further argument, “I outrank you, and you’ll do as I say, now.”

  He all but shoved the Constable out the door and pulled it shut just as he heard the man’s boots on the stone steps. Rutledge was back at the tower when the man came out the door.

  “Shut it, if you please,” Rutledge said. “We can sit in there,” he added, gesturing toward the last of the pews in the nave. And he walked off.

  “I didn’t intend to drop the shotgun,” the man was saying as he followed. Then, “I think the stock is damaged.”

  “It’s not mine,” Rutledge said as if it had no value to him.

  The man followed him and set the shotgun to one side as he took the pew just ahead of Rutledge.

  “Your name?” Rutledge asked.

  “Wade. Eddie Wade.”

  “How did you lose your family?”

  “You’re actually going to help?” Wade demanded.

  “How did you lose your family?”

  “At the start of the war, I didn’t want to serve.” He faced Rutledge defiantly. “I’m not a coward, mind. But I had no taste for killing Germans.”

  And who was he, Rutledge thought, to judge a man like Wade?

  But he said coldly, “Hardly an explanation. Go on.”

  “My sister was married to a man from Cologne. A waiter in Canterbury. He was a nice chap, took good care of her. They took him up and locked him up for the duration. Said he was a danger. Broke her heart.” He looked toward the ceiling, and the bosses that connected the ribs. Spots of still-bright color in the plain cream plaster. “They sent me to work in a hospital in Taunton. I was there five days—five days, damn her eyes—when one of the Sisters told Matron I’d taken her little watch. I hadn’t, but I was charged and found guilty. Nobody stood up for me. I’d refused to fight for King and Country. That was all the proof they needed. And her sitting there during the trial with a smug smile on her face. I hadn’t touched the watch, and she knew it. The day I was sentenced, she was wearing it. When she saw me looking her way, she moved her coat just a bit, so I could see it pinned to her apron. I only just got out of prison a few days back. Last time I spoke with Mary—my wife—she told me she’d decided to take the children and go to live with her mother. She didn’t want them living where everyone knew I’d been in prison and why. She gave me the address her mother had sent her. See? Sadie Milling, my mother-in-law.”

  He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a square of paper, glanced at it, and then held it out.

  Rutledge read the barely legible writing, the paper worn from repeated viewing.

  Sadie Milling, Paisley Cottage, Butter Lane, Hemsley Glos.

  “Didn’t your wife visit or write to you while you were in prison?” Rutledge asked. “Didn’t she tell you why she didn’t go on to her mother’s?”

  “I told her not to write. I told her to tell anyone who asked that I was in the Army. In France. And not much of a writer.”

  “Your sister?”

  “She killed herself. When they tried Hans for being a spy, and shot him. That was the day before I was sentenced. They wouldn’t let me go to her funeral. No one else was there. Just the Vicar and the sexton. It was a mad time, spies under every bed, and me being given the white feather in prison. They thrashed me too, until they tired of it. And shunned me after. I wished I’d gone ahead and killed the bloody Germans.”

  “Was Hans guilty?”

  “How the hell do I know? No. I don’t think so. There’s no reason why he should be. But he had family in Germany. A brother. He was a soldier, even before the war. Career. There were letters in German from him, and it was said they were a code. But Hans wouldn’t give them the key to it.” He rubbed his face with hands that were none too clean, then dropped them. “There wasn’t a key, most likely. Just—letters from his brother. But it was enough. They questioned her too, or so I heard. She’d never been to Germany, probably knew no more than a dozen words in the language. Good morning. Good night. I love you. She told me once he called her his little cabbage. Strange thing to call a wife. But she liked it.”

  He leaned his head back, his eyes closed. “I don’t know.” When he opened them again, he glared at Rutledge. “Anybody tell you that you were too good at listening?” Then he looked around. “I wish you’d meant that bloody tea.”

  “Where is your greatcoat?”

  “I sold it. Well, traded it for food. I thought it wouldn’t matter, that I’d be home and warm by now.”

  “Where did you get the shotgun?”

  “I saw the girl coming out of the Vicarage. I stopped her and asked where I might find Butter Lane. I’d looked for it myself, and couldn’t find it. And so I asked a man I met on the street. He told me there was no such lane. I told him he was a liar, and he called me a name. We had words. When I saw the girl, I thought she wouldn’t be likely to lie. But she said the same thing. By that time I was cold and hungry and angry. I told her I was armed, she ought not to lie to me. She screamed and ran back inside. I followed her, and I found her father cowering in the pantry. He’d seen the whole thing and hid himself, bloody coward that he was. There was the shotgun, in the pantry with him, and he never touched it. If it’ud been my daughter, I’d have used it, a strange man with his hand gripping her arm. So I took it. And I told her that if she’d be good and help me find my family, I’d not hurt her. I don’t know if she believed me or not, but she came quietly. Only someone saw us, me with the shotgun in one hand and her arm in the other, and you know the rest.�
�� He sighed heavily. “Why are these people trying to keep me from my family? I ask you?”

  “Have you thought that they aren’t here? That there is no Butter Lane, no Paisley Cottage, and no wife and children?”

  “No, that can’t be,” he cried, swinging around to stare at the altar. “They wouldn’t have told me a lie.” He turned back to Rutledge, his face strained and pleading. “Why would they do such a thing?”

  “Surely you knew where your mother-in-law lived? Where were you married?”

  “Sadie was living with my wife when I met her. After we were married, Sadie went to live with a cousin in Hereford. It was a cottage owned by an estate, and when the cousin’s husband died, the cousin had to give it up. The two of them moved to Gloucestershire. That was just after I’d been taken up for theft. I didn’t question it. I didn’t think to, when Mary came to visit me in my cell that last time and told me she was going to Gloucestershire too.” He was exhausted now, circles beneath his eyes, the collar of his thin suit coat turned up against the chill in the church, his spirits low.

  He was quiet for some time. Rutledge waited. And then the man said, “I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want to think they deserted me.”

  Rutledge got to his feet, then picked up the shotgun. The stock was splintered at the shoulder. “Any more shells?”

  Wade pulled a crumpled box from his pocket. “The last one went off in the tower. I found them on a shelf above the shotgun.”

  “Then let’s find that tea.”

  A red-faced Constable Biggins had been pacing outside the porch door, standing guard and fuming as the minutes dragged by. He turned as the door began to move. Then he started forward. Rutledge stood in his way, between Biggins and Wade. “My prisoner, I think. How is the girl?”

  “Frightened, crying for her mother. I sent her home with her uncle and the doctor. Sir.”

  “Had Wade hurt her?”

  “That’s who he is, the man up on the roof?”

  “Eddie Wade. Is she hurt?”

  “No. Sir.”

  “I heard someone cry out when Wade fired down toward you. Anyone hurt then?”

  “No. Sheer fright. Sir. The doctor has been and gone.”

  “Then this man is my prisoner still.”

  “After stirring up half the town? Keeping that girl up on the church roof, in danger of falling any minute? Firing that weapon at us below?”

  “Ah, yes, the weapon. It belongs to the Vicar. I think.” Rutledge handed it to him. “Look, I understand how angry you must be—”

  “Not by half. Sir.”

  “But I have reason to think he’s the victim himself. His wife told him she was going to live in Hemsley, Butter Lane, Paisley Cottage.”

  “This is Hemsley, well enough. The only one in Gloucestershire as far as I know. But there’s no Butter Lane. And I never heard of a Paisley Cottage, Butter Lane or no.”

  “That’s what I thought as well,” Rutledge agreed affably. “I’m going to Mary Wade’s last known address, to find out if there’s any truth to his story. I’ll be happy to have you accompany me.”

  “But, sir, I can’t leave Hemsley on such a wild-goose chase. I have responsibilities here.”

  “Then I’ll deal with it. And if I find that Mr. Wade is lying to me, I’ll bring him back here to face the Magistrate. Will that satisfy you?” Behind him, Wade stirred uncomfortably.

  Biggins stared at him. “That’s most unconventional, sir.”

  “True enough.” Rutledge smiled. “But you’ll have to trust me to keep my word. Mr. Wade did, and it resolved your tense situation without bloodshed.”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Did you bring my motorcar around?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Waters did. He’s the solicitor. And Nell’s uncle. But—”

  As they walked on, Rutledge could see the motorcar was waiting just outside the churchyard, the dark red paint gleaming in a patch of sunlight. Biggins was still arguing.

  Rutledge said, “There’s enough daylight left to make good time. Thank you, Constable. If you have any other concerns, I suggest you speak to Mr. Waters.” He was holding Wade’s arm, thin through the thinner fabric of his coat, leading him inexorably toward the waiting motorcar.

  Biggins continued to protest, but Rutledge ignored him until they had reached his motorcar.

  “Yes,” he said then, “I’m well aware that the Yard hasn’t been called in to deal with this matter, but since I was involved in it almost from the start, I think your point is moot, Constable. Again, I refer you to Mr. Waters. And the Vicar, who must be grateful to have his daughter safely home again. It could well have ended very differently.”

  He got Wade into the motorcar and turned the crank while Biggins stood by, flushed and unwilling to let it go.

  “I shall report this irregularity to the Chief Constable, sir.”

  “I shouldn’t, if I were you. After all, while you were distracting Wade from below, I was able to get to the roof and persuade him to give himself up. I expect the Chief Constable will see it that way as well. Mr. Waters will attest to the fact that he asked me to give you every assistance. Which I’ve done.”

  The motor had caught, and Rutledge walked around to his door. There he dropped the light manner that was tormenting the Constable and said reasonably, “Look, Biggins, I mean no disrespect to you or to Hemsley. But before we know how this man is to be charged for what he did today, we need to find out if he was purposely misled. If neither you nor Waters can travel with me to look for answers, then in all fairness you don’t have enough facts to proceed. I meant what I said when I told you I’d bring him back.”

  But Biggins went on staring after them until they were out of sight. Rutledge could feel his gaze and the impotent frustration the man was feeling.

  Wade asked then, “Why are you doing this?”

  It was a good question, one Rutledge had been asking himself for the past half hour. Hamish had had some words to say in the matter as well.

  He had spent three days in Hereford giving evidence in a trial, and he had purposely taken a longer route back to the main road to London. He couldn’t have said why he’d done that either, but there was nothing to hurry back to the city for.

  The Yard would probably have something to say in this present matter. Most particularly if Biggins did involve the Chief Constable. He could imagine how Chief Superintendent Jameson would react. His refusal to see beyond the obvious was famous. But then neither the Chief Constable nor the Chief Superintendent had been present in Hemsley.

  Still, the holidays had been difficult. His sister, only just married in early December, had chosen to spend Christmas with Peter’s large family. They had invited Rutledge to come as well, but he had already used his leave for the wedding and had had to send his regrets.

  Twelfth Night was four days ago. Frances and Peter would have returned to London yesterday. He knew Frances, he knew she would want to see him as soon as possible. And he wasn’t ready.

  Melinda Crawford had asked him to come to Kent and spend Christmas with her. He’d had no choice but to go—he wouldn’t have put it past her to apply to her old friend at the Home Office to be certain he had the day free. It had been a quiet but pleasant celebration, and he was glad afterward that he’d accepted. And Melinda had carefully avoided any subject that might have made him uncomfortable. He found himself smiling as he recalled her deft direction of their conversations. She would have made a consummate diplomat.

  Bringing himself back to the present, he said, “I hope I shan’t regret it.”

  Wade turned to look out his window. “You can’t imagine how it feels to have no home to return to.”

  Rutledge said nothing. He lived in a London flat now, the house where he’d grown up left to his sister in his parents’ wills—with his blessings—and was now Peter’s home as well. He would no longer feel free to walk in unannounced to call on Frances.

  He’d planned to drive straight through to the
village where Wade had last seen his wife, but he realized that the man had probably had very little to eat that day, and whether he’d eaten at all the day before was questionable. And so he stopped at a wayside inn shortly after crossing over into Hereford and ordered dinner.

  Wade ate like a man who had been starving. Slowly at first, as if he was unsure whether or not his stomach could address the food, and then with increased appetite. When he was finished, his dishes were almost wiped clean with the last of the bread.

  He hadn’t said much during the meal, but now he looked across the table at Rutledge and said, simply, “Thank you.”

  They were back on the road again ten minutes later, and Wade fell heavily asleep, his head thrown back, his loud snores breaking the silence in the motorcar. Rutledge was soon fighting his own drowsiness as he concentrated on the road ahead. His headlamps cut a wide swath in the winter darkness as main roads became back roads and then narrow lanes that cut cross-country toward their destination. By ten o’clock farmhouses and villages were dark, village streets empty as he ran into a cold rain. Showers at first, then downpours that forced him to reduce his speed.

  He found the tiny village of Merwyn without much difficulty, and discovered that it didn’t boast an inn. Nor did the pub appear to be large enough to offer accommodation.

  In the end, he drove on to the nearest village with an inn, and roused a clerk from his bed to ask for two rooms.

  Wade stumbled up the stairs, went into his room, and was asleep almost as soon as he’d pulled up blankets against the chill. Satisfied that the man wouldn’t be running as soon as his captor’s eye’s closed, Rutledge went to his own room. He lay staring at the ceiling while Hamish called him mad and warned that he’d regret this day’s work.

  “You tell yoursel’ it’s because the bride and groom are coming back to London. But it’s no’ that. It’s the Gordon Christmas party.”

  Rutledge denied it, but Hamish gave him no peace. He lay there, listening to the snores from the other room, thinking that Wade must have been tired to the bone to sleep so soundly when all he had to do was slip down the stairs and out the door of the inn. Even in the rain, he could make good time if he knew the roads. Finding him again would be almost impossible.