Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery Page 7

  Mrs. Sedley glanced at her husband, then answered Rutledge. “As a houseguest, he was charming and agreeable and no trouble at all. The servants were shocked that he’d been killed.” Hesitating for only a moment, she added, “But Barbara’s family has a long history, and over the centuries there have been quite a few distinguished members. Among the wedding guests was the Bishop, of course, and Colonel Rollins, and then someone from the Foreign Office, a man named Tuttle. I began to think that Captain Hutchinson was—seeking to make powerful new friends.”

  Her husband said impatiently, “We should not speak ill of a man who died while he was a guest in this house. I can’t think your remarks have any bearing on what happened.”

  She sighed impatiently. “No, of course not, I can’t imagine that they would have done. But, my dear, it’s precisely because he’s dead I must tell Inspector Rutledge what I think. He must be the judge of whether it’s helpful or not. We want the Captain’s murderer found, don’t we? It will do no good to pretend he was perfect.”

  “Did anyone seem to take offense at his attempt to impress the more important guests?”

  “I don’t know that anyone realized precisely what was happening. It was a very busy few days. And he was quite good at it, you see. But as I was his hostess, I was sometimes anxious that he might be becoming a little obvious, ingratiating himself. Just happening to find himself next to the Bishop or the Colonel or Barbara’s rather influential father a trifle more frequently than was usual in a guest who was not of the immediate wedding party. I must say, he was interesting. They seemed to enjoy his company, but I witnessed the maneuvers that made it possible for him to stand or sit next to one of them. And I wondered if someone else might have noticed. Barbara’s mother, for one. She doesn’t suffer fools lightly. And she wouldn’t care to be used in that way.”

  Sedley said, “That’s a little harsh.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” his wife responded. “But if the Captain was behaving like this in Ely, perhaps he had behaved in the same way in London.”

  “I appreciate your honesty,” Rutledge cut in, before Sedley could say more. “It’s something to bear in mind. Jealousy is a powerful emotion.” He hesitated, then added, “I know it will be very painful, but could you tell me what happened as you walked across the grass toward the Cathedral?”

  She turned slightly to look toward the drawing room window, and at first he didn’t think she intended to answer him. Then she said, bringing the moment back in her mind, “I had just turned to Captain Hutchinson—I can’t even tell you what I was about to say. Something trivial, it’s completely gone from my mind now—when his face changed. I’ve never seen anything like it. Shock? I don’t think it was pain. Just—surprise that something was happening to him. And suddenly noise was everywhere, and the front of the Captain’s white shirt was turning red. All this before he began to fall. As if time had stopped, somehow. To my surprise, I was screaming for help, and my husband was on his knees, trying to stem the flow of blood. But there wasn’t much of it after all.” She shuddered, and her husband put his hand over hers.

  “That’s enough,” he said. “You’ve upset her enough, Rutledge. We’ve told you we saw nothing. How could we, we didn’t even know where to look.”

  But Rutledge had got what he came for—a first insight into the dead man. And from that he would have to build a case.

  There was time for two other interviews in what was left of the afternoon. First was a young man who had been behind the barricades. One of the several dozen people who had collected to watch the spectacle of a fashionable wedding.

  The reason this witness had been of interest to Inspector Warren was because he was deaf. He hadn’t heard the shot, he hadn’t been distracted by the screams.

  His name was Teddy Mathews. He had come to the barricade wondering why people were gathered there, to see what had drawn them—what was happening.

  Rutledge found him at the house where he lived with his sister. It wasn’t far from the Cathedral, and it was Mathews’s custom to walk there on the grounds every day for exercise.

  When Rutledge arrived, it was the sister, Sadie, who admitted him. He asked to speak to her brother and added, “I’m not sure how to manage the interview.”

  “I’ll translate for you, of course. And he can read lips as well.” She led him through to a sitting room where Mathews was reading by the window, and made the introductions as her brother rose to greet their visitor.

  He was slim, with dark hair and very bright blue eyes, and his handshake was firm.

  As they were seated again, Rutledge explained why he was there, and the young man nodded.

  “I’ll help in any way I can,” he replied as his sister translated his signs. “But first I must ask. Do you know who it was who did this thing? I’ve found it hard to sleep, thinking about it.”

  “We’re hoping to make an arrest soon,” Rutledge answered. “Anything you tell us will be useful.”

  “Yes, I can see that being deaf might have its uses here.” He smiled, but his sister couldn’t quite bring herself to answer it with one of her own.

  “I saw people at a barrier, and wondered what was happening. There was obviously going to be a wedding, judging from the guests who were arriving on the other side of the Green, and I stood there for a moment or two, enjoying watching like everyone else. I had no idea who the bride or groom was, mind you. It was just a way to pass the time. There was a lull in arrivals, and I was about to turn away when another motorcar pulled up and three people got out. A very beautifully dressed woman and two men. I was staring at her when two other men arrived just behind them and started toward the Cathedral as well. I couldn’t ask anyone, but I rather thought one of the two men with the woman must be the bridegroom. The tall one, perhaps thirty or so, fairly handsome. It was something in the way he carried himself. As if he knew his worth. I was looking directly at him when he was hit.” He broke off, then went on more slowly. “I didn’t know what was wrong. He just stopped short for the briefest moment, and then fell backward. I wondered for an instant if his heart had given out.”

  “You couldn’t hear the shot at all.”

  “No, not at all. I’m totally deaf. But I could very quickly see from the faces around me that something was badly wrong.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I turned to the man beside me, asking for an explanation. But he was very upset, and I couldn’t read his lips.”

  “You were turned to face the Lady Chapel at that moment?”

  “I was.”

  “Did you see anyone near the wall or the gate into the Cathedral grounds?”

  “I don’t think so. I was struggling to understand what the man was saying, why people were jostling us now, pushing to get away as fast as they could. I couldn’t tell why they were so frightened. Still, if something had been going on in that direction, something unusual, I think I’d have noticed. Inspector Warren has already asked me the same question, and I keep trying to remember anything that might help.”

  “Have you remembered anything?”

  He shook his head, unhappy. “Sorry. No.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I turned back, I realized that the man was hurt, was even possibly dead, and people were rushing out of the Cathedral just as the bride’s motorcar was turning into the street and starting in our direction. An Army officer and another man were bending over the fallen man, and then the officer stood up and began to look at the buildings on either side and then up at the Cathedral, as if searching for something. I realized then that nothing more could be done for the man on the ground. It was shocking. I couldn’t begin to imagine what the bride must think, seeing all this turmoil. I left shortly afterward, because it was distressing not to know what was going on. It wasn’t until later, when the police came to our door, that I realized the man had been shot and that I’d been mista
ken in thinking he was the groom.”

  “How did the police know to find you?”

  “I believe someone there at the barrier recognized me. I hadn’t stayed long enough to see the police arrive. They wanted to know why I’d left, but my sister explained about my deafness. I think they understood.”

  Mathews was, Rutledge saw, a very good witness, clear about what he’d seen, even though he’d only partially understood it at the time. It explained why Warren had suggested that Rutledge speak to him.

  “When you left, how did you make your way home?”

  “I turned away from the barricade, walked straight to the next street, and made my way home from there. On foot.”

  “Did you see anyone or anything unexpected as you turned away from the Cathedral? Workmen with their tools, a priest carrying anything unusual, a person with a large bundle or package?”

  Mathews watched his sister’s busy hands, then nodded. “By that time, other people were hurrying toward the Cathedral. There was a sweep, I remember, his tools over his shoulder, and a priest, and then there was the man with a barrow. He’d been going in my direction, but he turned and hurried back toward the Cathedral, leaving his barrow standing in the road. A number of people stopped me to ask questions. I couldn’t tell them what I’d seen. By the time I reached my house, I was shaken, I admit it. I wouldn’t go out at all the next day. I don’t like to feel—different. But this brought it home to me very clearly that I was.”

  There was anguish in his face as he finished. He had, Rutledge thought, managed to come to terms with his deafness. And then, caught in the midst of chaos, he’d kept his head until he’d reached the safety of his house. Only then had he given in to the shock.

  “The man with the barrow. Could you see what he was carrying in it?”

  “I seem to remember it was covered with a ragged cloth. I didn’t think about it again until the constable came to interview me.”

  It had been the last thing on Mathews’s mind, that was clear.

  “Are you sure he’d been leaving the Cathedral area?”

  “I don’t know. He was ahead of me on the street, but he could have come from the pub just there or one of the shops. I expect I assumed he was going about his business when the excitement began.” His brows twitched together as he tried to remember. “People do cut across in front of the Cathedral. Every day. But I was at the barrier, and I hadn’t seen him there. He could have come from that lane running down beside the Lady Chapel.”

  A man with a barrow. Anything could have been under that cloth.

  It was a place to start.

  Rutledge thanked him, and Mathews’s sister showed him to the door.

  She said, as he stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight, “My brother is a good man. He manages quite well, actually. But he was very upset when he reached the house. I hope this is the last time you will need to interview him. It’s difficult to relive what happened.”

  “We’ll try to spare him, Miss Mathews. But we’re searching for a killer.”

  “Ask someone else, then. There were dozens of people there. Perhaps if they heard the shot they can tell you where it came from.” She closed the door, leaving him there.

  His last interview was with a Mrs. Boggs, who was going to market, noticed the cluster of people by the Cathedral barrier, and stopped to see what had brought them there. Someone told her it was a wedding, and she’d stayed in the hope of seeing the bride arrive.

  She lived in one of the poorer sections of Ely. She walked home daily from her work as a washerwoman for one of the large homes not far from the Sedleys’.

  She was surprised and more than a little flattered to find Scotland Yard at her door.

  As he asked his questions, he realized that she was more astute than he’d realized. Her red face, strawlike fair hair, and rough hands were a badge of her occupation, not her mind.

  “What I know about guns,” she said, “you could put in a thimble. But I was watching that Captain Hutchinson coming across the grass. He was a well-set-up gentleman, and I saw him step out of his motorcar and offer the lady with him his hand.”

  It had been Sedley’s motorcar and Sedley’s wife.

  “Tell me about him,” Rutledge asked.

  She cocked her head. “Nearly as tall as you are, a man to take notice of. Now the gentleman with him was quite handsome, but a little old to be the bridegroom. Still, you never know, do you? The Captain—they told me his name when they took my statement—was smartly dressed, as if his valet had taken special care. I do know something about valets. They like their gentleman to be well turned out.”

  “What did you see just before he was struck by the bullet?”

  “The lady was speaking to him, but he looked up, as if he knew something was about to happen, and then he was shocked, as if he couldn’t believe what it was. At first I thought the lady had said something unpleasant, but we heard the shot in the same breath, only I didn’t know what it was, I couldn’t think for the sudden noise. And he was falling over, and everyone was screaming.” She shook her head. “I never saw anything like it.”

  “What do you mean, he looked up?”

  “The way you do sometimes when you hear something you don’t believe.”

  And Mrs. Sedley couldn’t remember what it was she was saying to Hutchinson just as he was shot.

  “Did you see anyone by the gate that led into the precincts of the Cathedral, the one close by the Lady Chapel? Or anyone at all who seemed to be out of place? Either the way he looked or because of what he was carrying.”

  “There was no one by that gate. Not that I saw. Why should there be? You couldn’t very well watch all the finery from there. As to anything out of place, I do remember something that struck me as a little odd. But for the life of me I can’t bring it back. Just something ordinary, you know, but I was in a state by that time, and it clear went out of my head.”

  Try as he would, Rutledge couldn’t coax whatever it was from her memory. In the end he had to thank her and ask her to notify the police if she brought it to mind.

  Back in the center of Ely once more, he found a telephone and put in a call to Sergeant Gibson in London.

  Gibson’s voice as he came to the telephone had a cautious note in it.

  Rutledge said, “Two of the people involved in these murders in the Cambridgeshire Fens came from London. I shall need whatever you can find about one Captain Gordon Hutchinson. He’s the victim in Ely. The other man is the bridegroom here, Jason Fallowfield. He was walking very close to the victim and might well have been the intended target. They’re distantly related, although they called themselves cousins. Most particularly I need to know if the second victim, the one in Wriston, had any connection with either of the other two men. Herbert Swift is the name. There’s no link we can find here—it must lie in London. Finally, there’s an artillery Major, one Lowell, first name Alexander. Does he have a connection with Hutchinson or Swift? He couldn’t have been the shooter. But he may have been involved in some way.”

  Gibson said only, “That’s a tall order. Sir.”

  Rutledge smiled grimly. Whatever was happening in London must be requiring a good deal of manpower, and Gibson was alerting him to the possibility of delays before he received any information.

  So much for Markham’s dictum. Unless there was a break here in Cambridgeshire, there was no possibility of an early arrest.

  He thanked Gibson, adding, “Give it your best try. That’s all that matters.”

  Gibson was silent for a moment—Rutledge could hear voices, as though several men were walking past where the sergeant was standing. Finally in a rush the sergeant said something that was nearly unintelligible coming down the line, then added “Sir” before ringing off.

  Rutledge would have sworn that what he’d heard was new broom.

  An ominous sign.
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  Chapter 6

  Shutting the door behind him as he walked into his room under the eaves, Rutledge sat down in the only chair and gave the problem facing him some thought.

  He’d seen the mountain of interviews that Inspector Warren had painstakingly collected. It would take days to sort through the rest of them, in the hope of finding something, anything to be going on with. His time was better spent elsewhere.

  But there was still the question of the man with the barrow.

  Rutledge made a note to deal with it tomorrow, and went out to find himself some dinner before going to bed.

  But the room felt still, airless, when he came in again, and a little after two in the morning he could stand it no longer. He got up, dressed. The streets were empty and quiet when he let himself out of the inn door and walked as far as the Cathedral.

  In the nearly full moon, it was at once imposing and mysterious. The silvery light shone through the Lantern, giving it a ghostly glow that seemed to emanate from inside. Where it could be seen from his vantage point, the roof gleamed like dull pewter, while below it the stone walls seemed to squat in darkness with very little definition, the occasional spire rising into the night sky, like fingers pointing to God.

  The Palace Green stretched before him, full of shadows, the Russian cannon that Queen Victoria had dedicated on a visit to Ely black and ugly. Looking at it, he thought it had been an odd welcome for the wedding guests, but then it had stood there so long it was likely that no one noticed it.

  He began where the motorcars had drawn up, at the top of the Green, then took the route that Warren had pointed out to him. There was no one else about, although he thought he heard an owl in the distance. He walked across the grass, now damp with dew, and stopped where Hutchinson had fallen. Standing there, he did what Major Lowell had done, turning slowly in a half circle, his gaze taking in every possible vantage point and then discarding them one by one.

  There was no clear line of sight from the Diocesan buildings. It would have had to have been a head shot. But the killer had gone instead for the heart. Why?