A Fine Summer's Day Read online

  He realized that Clayton’s children, Annie, Peter, and Michael, were young, and the young dwelled in the present. They weren’t of an age yet to ask their parent about his own youth, or for that matter, even think of him as having been young. The possibility that the father might have been an escaped murderer or had enjoyed a dissolute year or two in his twenties was as foreign to them as the West Country.

  He thanked Clayton, and set out to find the men and women whose names were on the list.

  That took him nearly three hours, but he managed to find all but one of them. They had been questioned before by Farraday and knew why he had come to speak to them, but they had nothing to add to what they’d told the local man. Only one of them had been to Moresby before, and that was seven years ago. None of them had roots in the West Country. On the whole, Rutledge thought they were telling him the truth, that they’d never heard of a man named Clayton until Farraday had appeared to interview them. Even the elusive artist, a man in his late fifties, was appalled that anyone could consider him guilty of murder. As he was a short, slim man, unlikely to have managed a hanging, Rutledge tended to agree.

  No one seemed to know where to find the name at the top of the list—it wasn’t familiar to anyone Rutledge spoke to, and the man didn’t seem to frequent any of the usual restaurants or tearooms that catered to visitors. And so Rutledge went back to Farraday.

  “That’s the only one of that lot I didn’t like,” the Inspector told him. “This is the man who came to view the ruins. There’s something rather odd about him. Anxious, couldn’t look me in the eye. A writer, he says. Amateur archaeologist. But when I talked to him about the abbey, he only seemed to know what had been drummed into our heads in school. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that he’d have learned something new about the monks or the building, if he was going to write about them? Or how Moresby compared with the other well-known Yorkshire monastic ruins at Ripon or Fountains?”

  “I thought you told me earlier that it was possible he was telling the truth? That you were waiting for a response from the magazine that intended to print his article?”

  “The magazine hasn’t got back to me. Look, his story about where he was all evening appeared to check out. But I ran into him a quarter of an hour ago up on the path to the abbey, and we talked again. I hadn’t sought him out, mind you. He’d have stayed in the clear if he’d kept his mouth shut. I’d have believed him if he’d said he couldn’t discuss his work.”

  “Interesting. If he isn’t writing for a magazine, then why is he here?”

  “A German spy? There’s a good harbor here.”

  “You can’t be serious?” Rutledge asked.

  “Who’s to say? Like everyone else in the country, I’ve been following the news. If the Russians attack Austria and the Germans come to Austria’s aid, where will we be? I can’t believe it’s a question of if, but of when. I tell you, if Russia has her wits about her, she’ll leave those assassins to stand trial for what they did. She won’t interfere. But who knows what the Tsar will decide to do? And how steady is the German Kaiser? Then there’s France,” he added darkly. “France has a treaty with Russia, just as Germany has an alliance with Austria.”

  “You’ve been following events very closely.”

  “I’m of an age where I might find myself in uniform, if worse comes to worst. But more to the point, my younger brother most certainly will, if we’re drawn into this business. And I’d not like to see that. I could fend for myself. I’m not sure he has the bottom to last it through. He’s a theology student. He failed at everything else he tried, but he seems to like this.”

  Rather like Michael, Rutledge thought. What would the Army do for someone like Michael? Make a man of him? Or turn him bitter?

  Farraday was saying, “You’re of an age, yourself.”

  “So far, Britain’s stayed out of it.” In truth, Rutledge hadn’t given much thought to the chances of war. For one thing, he was a policeman, not an Army officer. For another, there hadn’t been a war in over a hundred years where men had been conscripted into the Army. He’d been seduced by happiness into thinking this saber rattling in Europe was no different from any other Balkan conflict. What if it were?

  “Yes, well, we’re speaking of Europe. They’ll find a way to drag us in, mark my words. Remember Napoleon? Not that any of the present-day rulers are his match. Far from it. But before he was finished, all of Europe was ablaze.”

  “You’re pessimistic,” Rutledge said. “We weren’t drawn into the Franco-Prussian War.”

  “Not so much pessimistic as concerned. France and Prussia had at it in 1870. And France didn’t much care for the outcome. She’ll not walk away from a chance to get her own back. If Germany comes in on the side of Austria, mark my words, she’ll leap at the chance to take on the Kaiser.”

  If so, a little Balkan war wouldn’t stay little or confined to Serbia and the Balkans. “The Kaiser is a cousin of the King. He’s not a Chancellor Bismarck. And he’s no Frederick the Great.”

  But even as he said the words, Rutledge remembered glimpsing the German Kaiser on his last visit to England. A pompous man with a withered arm . . .

  “That may well be what the French are counting on.”

  “You can’t be serious about the possibility that this man—what’s his name?—could be a spy?”

  Farraday rubbed his face with both hands, his voice sounding hollow as he answered. “God knows. But we’ve not much else to choose from.” He dropped his hands. “Name’s Hartle. Edward Hartle. See if you don’t see something about him that raises the hackles.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “At the ruins, I expect. You needn’t go around by land, there are stairs on the cliff that will take you up. I’ll show you.”

  He led Rutledge out into the street, and shading his eyes, he pointed. “That row of houses. Halfway along you’ll find the stairs. Can’t miss them.”

  Rutledge thanked him and set out for the ruins. It was warm in the sun, and by the time he was halfway up the steps—nearly two hundred of them—he’d taken off his coat and his tie. Higher up, he began to catch the breeze from the sea, and by the time he’d reached the flat top of the headland, he could feel it ruffle his hair even as the sun baked his face.

  The ruins were majestic. There was no other word for them, at a distance or close to. He’d been to Fountains Abbey and a few of the other well-known abbey ruins, but not all of them had such a spectacular setting, here on the headland, the sky above and the sea beyond. He turned for a moment to look back down at the little harbor, the houses straggling below him. He could just make out the bunch of black crepe on the door of the furniture maker’s shop. A mother and daughter were stepping out of the tea shop, Mrs. Calder seeing them off and closing the door behind them. Several other women were standing in front of the milliner’s shop, admiring the latest display. As he scanned the town center, two men came out of the tobacconist’s, conversing earnestly, their heads together.

  As a place from which to watch the town, this was an excellent vantage point. Rutledge followed the street patterns toward the Clayton bungalow. Moving slightly to his left, he found he could even pick out the walk leading up to the door.

  Had someone stood here and waited for Annie Clayton to leave for her brother’s flat above the shop? The days were long, it might well be light enough by ten to see her step out the door and to make certain she entered the shop. Signaling that Clayton was alone . . .

  Who had had a reason to kill Clayton? An ordinary man, a furniture maker, a family man, and a widower? Soon to be a grandfather for the first time?

  Was it someone in Moresby? Not a stranger, as Farraday seemed to hope, someone Clayton might not recognize at two in the morning, but a friend who had harbored a hatred that finally spilled over into bloodshed?

  He turned and walked on toward the ruins, to find this man Hartle.

  The tracery of empty windows was sharp against the sky and quite lovely. The
remaining walls gave him some sense of what the abbey must once have looked like. Certainly if its builders had feared Viking invaders from the sea, this was the spot to choose for the abbey. The monks could see for miles around, could have been prepared for any attack, and yet the original abbey had been plundered and destroyed by Northmen. This ruin was, like so many others in England, Norman. And they had built for beauty as well as endurance.

  The pond just beyond the abbey’s west front rippled as the breeze touched it, and the abbey’s reflection shivered across the surface.

  There was someone in the nave. Rutledge had seen the flash of a white shirt before the man moved out of sight behind a portion of the wall that had once been part of the north transept.

  Better, Rutledge thought, to approach in a roundabout fashion, and so, picking up his pace, he crossed the headland in the direction of the pond and the west front of the ruins, walking through the high grass at an unhurried pace, so as not to alarm his quarry. He looked up at the massive and beautiful facade as he made his way through the summer wildflowers toward it. Stepping into the shadows of the nave, he paused for a moment to get his bearings, and then he walked on toward the towering transept wall. There was no sun beating down on his shoulders here, and he felt a distinct chill as the perspiration on his body began to cool.

  He cornered his quarry on the far side of the transept, and he said, raising his voice to carry above the whisper of the wind, “Hallo.”

  The man turned, his face anxious, but he relaxed when he saw Rutledge.

  Who was he expecting to come up here to meet him? Farraday? Or someone else?

  Rutledge put his age at perhaps thirty, his build slender, his hair sun-streaked fair, although his eyes were brown.

  “Beautiful to walk here,” Rutledge said casually. “Is it usually so quiet?”

  “Yes. Well, sometimes there are visitors.” He paused. “What brings you here?”

  “I had time on my hands. And I’d never climbed up before. I thought it might be worthwhile. You?”

  “I—Working on an essay about Moresby. Its history and construction. I hope to see it published.”

  “Interesting. A don, are you?” But he was already fairly certain the man wasn’t an academic. His voice had given him away, and his clothing.

  “No, no. More like an amateur historian, I expect.” He stared up at the walls, then turned the subject. “They built well, didn’t they, those monks.”

  “Very well. A pity the years have taken their toll,” Rutledge answered, gesturing to where a part of the wall had fallen in, stones scattered in the high grass. “What made you choose Moresby for your work?”

  “Its isolation.”

  Rutledge indicated the man’s worn and earth-caked boots. It was evident he’d done quite a bit of walking lately, and in all weathers. “Scrambling about looking for dinosaur bones and pockets of jet, as well?”

  There were areas of the headlands here where both had been found. But the other man appeared to be perplexed, as if uncertain whether Rutledge was jesting or serious.

  He shrugged, then added. “There hasn’t been time so far.”

  “Where do you live, below? Can you see the ruins from your windows? It must be quite amazing to look up here during a full moon.”

  It was clear the other man hadn’t thought about a full moon. He stared for a moment, then said quickly, “Yes, rising from the sea. Of course.”

  Rutledge’s voice changed as he said, “What really brings you here, Mr. Hartle?”

  “Oh dear God. You aren’t another policeman, are you?”

  “Scotland Yard,” he replied tersely.

  Hartle sat down quickly on the nearest stone, as if his legs couldn’t support him any longer. “I thought I could get away with it. At least for a while.” He gestured with one hand, as if giving up. “I just hadn’t bargained for the police to take such an interest. At least not quite so soon.”

  Rutledge reached up to deal with his tie, and then pulled on his coat. “I think you’d better come down to the police station with me and explain yourself.”

  “For God’s sake, no.”

  “I don’t think you have much choice,” Rutledge said. “A man has been murdered here in Moresby. We’re interviewing local people and strangers like you.”

  “But I’m not a stranger!” Hartle said quickly. “Look, let me explain. Will you just listen to me for a moment? I didn’t want to say anything to Farraday. He might have remembered. You’re from London, you’ll not be prejudiced by the past.”

  “Go on.” Rutledge found another place to sit, and waited.

  “My father is dying,” Hartle began. “He has a farm not far from here. We had a falling-out eleven years ago. I was no more than a boy, but he struck me out of his will, and I don’t mind that. I can fend for myself. Still, I was hoping he’d ask for me, you see. And I wanted to be nearby, in the event he does. But of course I can’t stay at the farm. And so I spend my days sitting up here, wondering what else I can do. One of my cousins has promised to come for me if Papa changes his mind about seeing me. I stay in my cousin’s house at night, but his wife doesn’t much care for me and has made it clear she doesn’t want me hanging about.” He made a deprecating gesture. “I was what you might call wild in my youth. I can’t blame her for feeling the way she does. But I’ve settled down. Changed. In more ways than one. Farraday didn’t even recognize me as the skinny lad with the spotty face and a sullen attitude. I long ago forgave Papa, but I want his forgiveness as well. Does that make any sense?”

  “Why didn’t you tell Inspector Farraday that?”

  “I told you. I’m here on sufferance as it is. Even my cousin has limits to his forbearance. If the police come around asking questions, trying to find out why I’m here, it will be taken in the worst possible way. Don’t you see? They’ll think I’ve never changed at all. But I have. I’ve found work, I’m seeing a very nice young woman, and the past ten years I’ve tried to make up for what I’ve done.”

  “What did you do?”

  Hartle’s face flushed. “I was more or less a ruffian, in with the wrong people. I stole from Papa. Before I ran away, and again the night I left. I’ve tried to pay it back, every farthing of it, but he refuses to take my money. It’s dirty, he says, ill-gotten. But it isn’t. I’ve worked for every bit of it. Honest work.”

  “What sort of work?”

  “I now have a position in a haberdashery in Scarborough. I was never cut out to be a farmer. Mr. Hartle is very kind. He gave me a little time off when I learned that Papa was ill. And come to that, it wouldn’t do for him to learn about my past. I’ve lived it down.”

  “Hartle. Another cousin?”

  “No, that’s it, you see. I didn’t want to hang about and give people time to think back. My name is Mark Kingston. I borrowed Mr. Hartle’s name. I doubt he’d approve, but I have not sullied it in any way,” he ended defensively.

  “A very plausible story. But it will have to be verified.”

  “But why? I’ve held nothing back.” Kingston’s tired face was suddenly haggard. “It will be even worse, with Scotland Yard walking up to the door and asking about me. I don’t know who was murdered. I don’t really care. But I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Didn’t the Inspector tell you? It was Ben Clayton, the furniture maker on Abbey Street.”

  “I don’t remember the man. For God’s sake, it was eleven years ago. And I wasn’t interested in furniture then, was I?”

  “What about his sons, Peter and Michael Clayton. His daughter, Annie? You must have been in school with some of them?”

  Kingston shook his head. “I wasn’t much for school. If they were good at their lessons, I scorned them and had nothing to do with them. My loss. Although somehow I took in enough reading and arithmetic to satisfy Mr. Hartle, when it came to hiring me.”

  Easy to say, hard to prove. Rutledge took another tack.

  “Inspector Farraday wonders if you might be a Ger
man spy.”

  Kingston was aghast. “In God’s name—” He got himself under control. “I’ve never been out of England. Never out of Yorkshire, come to that. Why would I spy for anyone, much less a country I don’t even know? Besides, why would a spy kill a furniture maker?”

  “Money?” Rutledge suggested, although he tended to disagree with Farraday on the subject.

  Kingston buried his face in his hands. “It’s a nightmare, I tell you. I just wanted my father’s blessing, I just wanted to know he’s forgiven me. And for him to see what I’ve done with my life these ten past years.”

  “Then we’ll verify what you’ve said.” He stood, stretching shoulders. “I’m going with you to your cousin’s house.”

  “And tell them what? That I’ve lied to Inspector Farraday, and I’m suspected of killing a man I wouldn’t have recognized if he passed me on the street?” He got to his own feet. “No thank you, I’d rather throw myself off that cliff and be done with it.”

  “Don’t be so ridiculously melodramatic,” Rutledge said shortly. “We’ve a long walk ahead of us, and I’m not in the mood.”

  Kingston stared at him, then fell in step. “I’m sorry. It’s been a difficult time.” He was silent until they’d reached the path that led down into the town. Then halfway down he commented, “I like the cut of your suit of clothes. London?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have your own tailor? I’m sorry, but I’ve learned a good deal about men’s fashions since I went to work for Mr. Hartle. I’ve considered learning how cloth is measured and cut. When I left the farm, I’d never seen a bespoke suit. We had the proper clothes to wear to church of a Sunday and the like, but the rest of the time it was corduroy and flannel and heavy cotton cloth seven days a week. Serviceable.”

  Rutledge let him rattle on. It was partly anxiety and partly curiosity, he knew, and by the time they’d reached the bottom of that long flight of steps, Kingston had fallen silent again.

  They walked through the town without speaking, Kingston peering over his shoulder, as if expecting Inspector Farraday to leap out of the shadows at any moment. On the outskirts, he pointed to a muddy lane that wandered off to their left. Behind a stone wall in the distance, sheep grazed quietly, ignoring the pair of black horses higher up on the rising land.