A Fine Summer's Day Page 5

  From the doorway, Peter said, “Claire insists if he keeps drinking he’ll have to go back to the house, like it or not. It upsets her to see him like this. He doesn’t handle being drunk very well.”

  Rutledge came back to the doorway. “I can understand your sister’s grief. She found your father, after all. But isn’t this a little excessive? This heavy drinking?”

  “My father hadn’t wanted him to go to York. He thought it a foolish trip, but Michael insisted on having his own way. I think that’s bothering my brother more than anything else. He believes if he’d been in Moresby, in the house that night, he’d have saved Papa’s life.”

  4

  Rutledge spent another quarter of an hour interviewing the Clayton family, and when he left he’d discovered very little more that would help him understand why Ben Clayton had been murdered.

  He sought out Doctor Sutton, who lived on one of the lanes that ran up the hillside below the abbey cliff. Sutton was nearing seventy, a spry man with thick white hair and a bristling mustache that was more salt than pepper.

  He was just seeing a patient out of his office when Rutledge arrived, and he glanced at the others waiting, then nodded to the man from London.

  “Come in, I can spare you a moment. Gossip tells me you’re Scotland Yard.”

  Rutledge smiled, but he was thinking to himself that if the rumor mill had already named him, why hadn’t it also whispered the name of a suspect? It wasn’t as if Moresby was a large city, where a man didn’t know his neighbor’s business. “Yes, I’ve come about the Clayton murder.”

  Sutton shut the door to his office and gestured to a chair. “Nasty business, that. I haven’t seen a hanging death in some fifteen years. And then it was a man who’d lost his wife and couldn’t face life without her.” He crossed the room and sat down at his desk. “Nearly botched the job for that matter.”

  “And in Clayton’s case? Was it a professional knot or a makeshift one? I assume you must have seen it in place.”

  Sutton frowned. “It was quite professional. I doubt a hangman could have done any better.”

  “Any hangmen living in Moresby?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But you can’t be serious. You aren’t looking for such a man?”

  “I’m not sure who I’m looking for. I’ll know when I take him into custody.” He glanced at the shelves of medical books behind the doctor’s desk. “Tell me how a man could walk into that house at two in the morning, and hang Clayton without a struggle? No one appears to have heard anything—the house wasn’t in disarray. I’m told there were no marks on Clayton’s body indicating that he’d fought for his life. Why would a man simply let himself be hanged? It’s not a pleasant death.”

  “I’ve asked myself that as well. The answer is, I think, that Clayton was not awake enough to offer much resistance. Occasionally he takes a powder I give him to help him sleep. Lumbago, you see. And when it’s particularly bad, he uses the powder. It’s perfectly safe, of course. But if he took it at ten or eleven, his usual bedtime, by one or two o’clock he’d still be feeling the effects of it. Groggy, at best. And young Peter suggested that when someone came to the door, his father thought Claire might have been in difficulty. There were two previous miscarriages, you see, and although this pregnancy has been trying for her, so far it appears she’ll carry it to term. Still, the family is worried. You can understand why.”

  “Which makes me wonder if the killer was someone Clayton knew. A member of his family. A neighbor. A customer. After all, he stayed, whoever he was, long enough to hang the man.”

  “Hardly his family. Ben and Peter worked very well together. Different temperaments, but they respected each other, and I think Ben was pleased that his son has a true talent. He needn’t copy furniture he’d seen, he could create his own designs. As for Michael, I don’t believe he’d have the strength of character to murder anyone. Even if he walked into that house with every intention of doing murder, he’d fail.”

  “I’m told he wishes to be a doctor.”

  “He says he thinks it would suit him. But he’s never cut open a living body and watched the warm blood pouring over his fingers. It’s the best way you could wish for, to thin out applicants.” Sutton smiled. “First time I had to pick up a scalpel, I nearly fainted from sheer fright. But I managed, and there’s the difference. Still. You never know, do you? It might be the making of that young man.”

  “The powders Clayton had for sleeping. How did he take them?”

  “Usually with a little water in a glass. He had a glass of milk in the evening, generally read for a time, and then if need be, before retiring he swallowed his powder. He didn’t care for them. If he used them I knew his back was painful.”

  “Did anyone think to test the half glass of milk on the table by his chair?”

  Sutton frowned. “I sniffed it. It had turned. I poured it out.”

  “It smelled only of sour milk?”

  “Yes, that’s right. What are you thinking, that there was something in the milk?” The frown deepened. “Are you asking if there was poison in that milk? It didn’t show up in the postmortem.”

  “But were you looking for it? I’m suggesting that if more than one of his powders was put into that milk, he would have been so deeply asleep that he wouldn’t have struggled.”

  “I see. If that’s true, it changes nothing. He died of a hanging.”

  “Who would have known that he took these powders?”

  “Myself. My nurse. His family—Annie, certainly, because she would ask every evening if he wished to have one. I’m sure his sons knew. It was no secret. His back could be quite painful. There was nothing to be done for it, but the powders allowed him to sleep when it was at its worst. But surely you don’t believe it was Annie or Peter? When Peter has looked forward to this child to the point of nearly driving his wife mad, cosseting her, I hardly see him setting himself up to be charged with murder. If he wanted to kill his father—and I don’t believe that for a moment—he’d have waited until the child was safely born. What’s more, I can’t imagine Annie getting her father as far as the top of the stairs, if he were heavily drugged. As for Michael, he was in York. Farraday has already confirmed that. And as I’ve poured out the milk, there’s no way to test your theory.”

  “There isn’t,” Rutledge agreed. “But someone has murdered Benjamin Clayton. He couldn’t hang himself. And it was done quietly. That speaks of a murderer with no fear of being caught in the act. He must therefore have known that the house was empty. Did the postmortem indicate any medical problems that you weren’t aware of?”

  “He was in good health. He was mentally sound. There was no reason for him to consider suicide. Besides, he was in here nearly every week, using some excuse or other to ask me if I was certain Claire was all right. I’ve never seen any man happier to welcome a grandchild.” Dr. Sutton took out his watch, opened the case, and glanced at the time, snapped the case shut again and looked up. “I don’t know who is to blame, but I’d stake my reputation that it wasn’t one of the family.”

  “Nor a neighbor, nor a competitor, nor a thief in the night.”

  The doctor grimaced. “Clayton didn’t live all his life in Moresby. Perhaps there was something in his past that eventually caught up with him.”

  “What do you know of his past?”

  “He met a Moresby girl who was away studying to become a teacher. They were married here, of course, and he found he liked Moresby. His own parents were dead, he had no ties holding him in the south, and for some time he’d wanted to strike out on his own as a furniture maker. He and his father had owned a shop selling ready-made furnishings, and with the money from selling that, he set up in business here. It wasn’t long before he moved to larger premises on Abbey Street, and he never looked back. I must say, Beatrice’s parents were amazingly perceptive. They never doubted him, and he didn’t disappoint them.”

  That tallied with what Clayton’s children had told Rutledge. He said
, “But where did he live before his marriage?”

  “Damned if I remember. Dorset, I think? Or perhaps it was Somerset. Peter might be able to tell you.”

  But when Rutledge went back to speak to Peter, he was no more sure than the doctor.

  “His parents were dead. It wasn’t as if we visited them from time to time,” he said apologetically. “Somewhere in Gloucestershire or Somerset? The West Country.”

  “Where did your mother go to school?”

  “In Somerset, I believe. She never really wanted to teach, but it was a proper profession for a young woman.” Peter Clayton smiled a little. “She lived more in the day and didn’t dwell on the past. She did say once that leaving home even for her training was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. I expect that’s why she never talked about it. And why Papa was willing to live here in Moresby.”

  “Did she make any friendships at the school that she might have kept?”

  “There was a Mary something or other,” he said vaguely. “But she died of cholera out in India where she’d gone to marry an officer in Delhi. I only remember that because it was one of the few times I saw my mother cry. She kept repeating ‘How sad, how sad,’ and ‘Poor Mary,’ as she read the letter, and then she saw me in the doorway and told me she’d just received unhappy news from her dear friend’s brother. Afterward she let me have the stamp.”

  “Was there anything in your father’s past that might have caught up with him? An old quarrel, an old jealousy?” Rutledge asked. “If he was content to live here in Moresby, perhaps he was glad to put the past behind him.”

  Clayton shook his head. “You didn’t know my father. He was even tempered, a man who did his duty and took pride in his work and his family. I can’t imagine any wild youthful indiscretions coming back to haunt him.”

  Annie came into the room just then, nodding to Rutledge and asking if there was any news.

  “None, I’m afraid.” He put to her much the same questions as he’d put to Peter, and she agreed with her brother.

  “I think the death of Papa’s father was hard for him. He lost heart. He said to me once that the shop held too many reminders, but I doubt he’d have sold it, if he hadn’t met my mother. She was his salvation, she gave him back love and hope. He said as much at her funeral.”

  But someone had killed the man. Michael? There appeared to be no motive, for if he did wish to be a doctor, his father was the best chance of seeing that through. Certainly he’d have had better luck persuading his father to pay for his education than trying to convince his brother he was serious about his future.

  There were footsteps on the stairs, and as if conjured up by Rutledge’s thoughts, Michael came through the door. Annie exclaimed, and hurried to embrace him.

  He looked ill. He’d shaved, but he’d missed patches of beard at the jawline and under his chin. His clothes were rumpled and his hair lank.

  “I went to the house,” he said to his sister. “But no one was there. I couldn’t bear to go in.”

  Peter Clayton frowned. “Surely you didn’t come through the shop looking like that?” he asked his brother.

  “There’s no one in the show room. After all, the shop is closed, isn’t it?” Michael answered. He stared at Rutledge. “You aren’t Papa’s solicitor.”

  “Were you expecting him?” Rutledge asked.

  “We can’t bury my father until the police give us permission. And so Mr. Adams suggested that the will be read before he’s interred,” Peter Clayton explained. “I doubt there’s anything new in it. Papa drew it up after Mama’s death.” To his brother, he said, “This is Inspector Rutledge. We told you—he was here earlier.”

  “Except that now I have no place to live,” Michael said morosely, ignoring the introduction. “I expect Annie must feel the same way.” He appeared to be sober now, although his skin was sallow. From a monumental hangover?

  “How is the estate likely to be divided?” Rutledge asked.

  “The house goes to Annie for as long as she cares to live there. Then it will be sold with equal shares going to each of us,” the younger brother answered.

  “Michael is right. I’m not sure I can bear to live there now,” Annie said in a low voice, shivering.

  “In time, perhaps,” Peter said, reaching out to rest a hand on her arm. “We’re in no hurry, love.”

  “And the business?” Rutledge persisted.

  Peter glanced at his brother. “My father saw to it that it was equal shares there as well. And I shall carry out his wishes, of course. I’ve worked downstairs from the time I was fourteen. By rights the business should be mine to go on with, I expect. But Annie will have a share in the profits until she marries, and then a dowry. Michael will have a share in the profits for as long as he works with me. If he chooses not to, he’ll be given a lump sum. The only problem is, I can’t afford a lump sum just now, but I can pay him monthly until I’m able to do more. We didn’t expect Papa to die so young. He’d been putting money back into the business to build it. As our bank manager can tell you, we are debt free, but there aren’t a lot of pounds on hand.”

  Rutledge had been watching Michael’s face. His lips twisted in a sour grimace, and it occurred to Rutledge that if Michael were to kill one of his family, it might well be his brother, not his father.

  He turned to the younger brother. “Did your father ever tell you stories about his childhood or his parents?”

  Michael shrugged. “The usual stories of growing up. He lost his mother when he was six, and he went to work in the shop with his father because there was no one to look after him. He liked it, he said, but his heart wasn’t in it, even when his father made him a partner. He wanted to build furniture, not wait on elderly ladies who couldn’t make up their minds.”

  Shortly after that, Rutledge thanked them, and walked down to the harbor. The water was a sparkling dark blue, and the boats riding at anchor bobbed a little as the tide ran. Overhead, gulls shrieked with interest, flying closer to inspect him, then moving on when they saw he had nothing to offer them. The steep-sided valley, carved out by the River More, lay basking in the sun.

  Who killed Benjamin Clayton? he asked himself, staring out to sea. He had to agree with Dr. Sutton that even if Michael had been tempted, he wasn’t likely to have the fortitude to see the attack through. Certainly not a hanging. And as Rutledge had seen for himself, there was more reason to kill his brother than murder his father. Peter would be fair, Rutledge thought, splitting the inheritance in equal shares as his father had wished, but he wasn’t as easily cajoled. Even if he were angry with his father, Michael would have been stupid not to think of that before acting. He was younger than his brother by a number of years, and perhaps he’d been spoiled by his mother. He might kill if the opportunity, the temptation, presented itself, but he wasn’t one to lose sight of his best interests even in the grip of anger.

  Rutledge walked back to the police station and found Inspector Farraday filling out forms.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve finished your work and can give me the murderer’s name?” he asked with a grin that was more sly than humorous.

  “Not yet. It’s a shame the doctor poured out the sour milk before it could be tested. I wonder if Clayton had been given something to sedate him.”

  “The odd thing is, he hadn’t gone to bed. Instead, he’d fallen asleep in his chair, in his shirtsleeves but still fully clothed. That would tend to make you think he hadn’t got around to taking his powders. The milk was gone before I got there, I can’t tell you what was in it. I know it existed, but at the time I was more concerned with what was hanging there above my head. The doctor tells me Clayton died from hanging. Not an overdose of anything he’d swallowed, although he appeared to have taken his powders. That brings us around to the fact that it was the daughter who set out the milk on the tray. Do you think Annie Clayton drugged her father?”

  “It’s hard to believe, but stranger things have happened.”

  “Or Mi
chael Clayton, more likely. Although I have sworn statements that place him in York. I can’t think he’d find that many people prepared to lie for him. Not in a case of patricide.”

  Rutledge sat down in the chair across from Farraday’s desk. “If it isn’t his family, and there were no known enemies, then we’re back to the outsiders visiting Moresby. You’ve been interviewing them. Is there any reason to question them again?”

  Farraday reached for a writing tablet, then tossed it across the desk to Rutledge. “You’re the man from Scotland Yard.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, he read the list, then nodded.

  “All right, I’ll have another look at them.”

  Farraday opened his mouth to say something, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Rutledge returned to the flat above the furniture maker’s shop. But Peter Clayton was in the shop itself, sitting at a desk in the back of the show room, head in hands. He looked up as Rutledge walked in, hope flaring in his face.

  “You’ve found out who it is?”

  “We’re pursuing our inquiries,” Rutledge said, and handed him the list. “Know any of these people? Have any of them come to the shop?”

  The man read through it, frowning as he came to each new name, then shook his head. “I don’t recognize any of them. If my father knew one of them, then he kept it to himself.”

  “Which once more brings us around to his past.”

  “I can’t think he was running from anything he’d done. You didn’t know my father—he was upright and good.”

  “Even upright and good men can do things they’ve regretted.”

  “I refuse to believe it. And my mother was a good judge of character. Come to that my grandfather—her father—wouldn’t have trusted his only daughter to a stranger. He’d have made inquiries, he’d have been certain that my father was the man he claimed to be. It wouldn’t surprise me if he himself made it his business to travel to the village where my father had lived.” He passed the list of names back to Rutledge.