A Fatal Lie Page 8

  Until he knew more about both men, he had to stay with the possibility that something from Milford’s past had caught up with him. After all, he hadn’t lived in Crowley most of his life. What, in fact, was in his past?

  Rutledge found the hotel, rather forlorn on its shabby corner but with a fine view of the dark red stone towers of the once-great Abbey, now only a shadow of itself.

  The young man at Reception smiled, thinking Rutledge had come to ask for a room.

  Instead he showed his identification and said as he put it away again, “I’m looking for one Samuel Milford, from Crowley. I believe he has been staying here?”

  Alarmed, the man said, “Here? Has he done something wrong?”

  Rutledge smiled. “We hope he can help us with our inquiries.”

  The man pulled the guest book from a drawer, nearly dropped it, and opened it at the place where a black ribbon marked the latest entries.

  “He arrived on the Monday of the week before last, arranged for an early lunch on Tuesday—then he left straightaway, even though he’d booked his room for three days.”

  “Did he meet anyone here at the hotel? Or has anyone called to speak with him?”

  “I don’t believe so, but I’m on duty only during the day. Still, he was a quiet guest, no trouble at all, and he’s stayed with us before.”

  “The lunch on Tuesday. Did he dine alone?”

  “Yes. He booked a table for one. He was expecting a letter, I believe, and it arrived by messenger shortly after he came down from his room.”

  “Who sent the letter, do you know?”

  “I’m sorry—the messenger insisted on taking it to the dining room and handing it to Mr. Milford personally.”

  “What do you remember about the messenger?” When the clerk hesitated, Rutledge added, “It could be important.”

  “Only that I’d never seen her before.”

  “Her?”

  “Yes. She came in, asked for Mr. Milford, went into the dining room, was there no more than a minute, and then she left. She was wearing dark clothing, very plain, and a cap rather than a hat. I was told she arrived by bicycle.”

  “Can you describe her? Would you recognize her again?”

  He shook his head ruefully. “I couldn’t even tell you what color her hair was. It was hidden beneath the cap.”

  Dora Radley? he wondered. But it could have been anyone.

  “Did she sound like someone from Shropshire?” The accent was noticeable.

  “She asked for Mr. Milford by name. Just that. I couldn’t judge where she came from.” But he had been curious about her, had remembered her.

  “Tall? Short?”

  “More middle height, I think. Slim.”

  “And Milford left immediately after his lunch?”

  “Yes. I said goodbye, wished him a safe journey home, and he went out the door.”

  “Did he have a motorcar?”

  “I believe he came to Shrewsbury by train. A cabbie brought him to the door.”

  “And he left the same way?”

  The clerk shook his head. “I’m sorry, I was busy with Mrs. Dunham. She wanted to book her dinner for seven rather than eight. I didn’t see how he left. But there are cabbies over by the Abbey. He could have found one there.”

  “Did he have a valise? An overcoat and hat?”

  “Well, yes, of course. The weather had taken a turn, and it was quite cold here week before last. Felt more like winter than spring. And I took up his valise myself. He was late for a meeting, he said.”

  “What was Mr. Milford’s state of mind after the letter arrived? Did it appear to upset him?”

  “If it had, I didn’t notice. Rather, he seemed very much himself.”

  After a few more questions, Rutledge thanked the clerk and left.

  In his motorcar once more, he considered his next step. He needed to know if Milford had a will and what the disposal of his property might be.

  The chambers of Hastings and Hastings was on a short street just beyond the center of Shrewsbury.

  But it was closed, and when he called in at the police station afterward, he was told that the Inspector in charge, a man by the name of Carson, had gone for the day.

  There was nothing he could do about it.

  Resigned to losing the rest of the day and the next as well, he considered what to do.

  It would behoove him to find a hotel.

  In the end, he went back to the one where Milford had stayed, and asked for the man’s room. It was vacant, and he took it.

  Hamish, derisive, asked, “Do ye expect his ghost to speak to ye there?”

  Rutledge, facing a frustrating day of inactivity, said only as he unlocked the room door, “For answers, I’d speak to the Devil.”

  At exactly nine o’clock on Monday morning, Rutledge presented himself at the elegant door of Hastings and Hastings.

  It was small as chambers went, with an elderly clerk who greeted Rutledge formally and asked his business.

  “I’m looking for the solicitor who represents the Milford family in Crowley.” He took out his identification and offered it to the man.

  “I see.” He looked up. “Shall I inform Mr. Hastings that this is a police matter?”

  “Yes. Official business.”

  The man nodded and walked to a door to his right. Five minutes later he was back, and he escorted Rutledge down a dimly lit passage. There were five doors along it, two on each side closed.

  The clerk tapped lightly on the last one, at the end, and then opened it.

  “Mr. Hastings,” the clerk said formally, and then closed the door after Rutledge stepped inside.

  Hastings was standing behind his desk, a stooped, gray-haired man wearing a rimless pince-nez. He looked tired. “Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, then resumed his seat as Rutledge sat down. “I understand you are with Scotland Yard. How may I help you?”

  “I’ve come about the affairs of Samuel Milford, late of Crowley. One of your clients, I’m told. He was found dead along the banks of the River Dee, near Llangollen. Wales. Evidence leads us to believe he fell or was pushed from the Telford Aqueduct. It would be helpful to know how his will stands.”

  Hastings had frowned at the news, shaking his head. “I am sorry to hear it. Mr. Milford was a good man. I can’t quite understand. Why do you believe he could have been pushed to his death? And why should he have been murdered?”

  “I don’t have those answers. Not yet,” Rutledge replied. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve come here. Do you know of anyone with whom he might have quarreled? Were there debts, for instance, or legal matters pending, any trouble at all that might shed light on what happened in Wales?”

  “He had no vices that I’m aware of. He liked a good wine, but he was no tippler, and he had no enemies that I’m aware of. He wasn’t one for gaming, or women. In fact, my impression is that he was very much in love with his wife. He was even-tempered, and steady. Did you know that he was a Sergeant in the Bantams?”

  He had been a Corporal in the photograph.

  “Yes, I did.”

  And then Hastings added somberly, “He didn’t care to talk about France. I didn’t like to pry, but I wanted to know—” He took a deep breath. “I lost my son and my nephews in the war. It would help to know how they died.”

  “Did you receive a letter from your son’s commanding officer?”

  He winced. “There were three, and very much the same. My son’s and my sister’s sons’. A fine soldier, liked by his men, he didn’t suffer, and we must be proud of him, for he gave his life for his King and Country. That isn’t terribly reassuring, is it?”

  Rutledge had written hundreds of letters very much like these—every officer felt it was a duty and responsibility to write to the families of the dead, reassuring them as much as he could, even when the man had died screaming in agony. The truth was often too distressing for grieving parents or wives. And so trite words
were often the kindest.

  He said, choosing his own words with care, understanding all too well how such letters were written, “Most casualties died at once. Others lived to be taken back for care. But the doctors could only do so much, and it was not unusual to lose severely wounded men. The Sisters were quite good, and very kind. They sat with the man throughout his ordeal, and wrote letters where they could—he might dictate them if he was conscious. Much of the time he would be given something for the pain, but he could ask the Sisters to take down any messages. Even if he couldn’t write.”

  He told himself it was not a lie, only a generalization. But as he spoke, something changed in Hastings’s face. A tightness there smoothed a little.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, with old-fashioned courtesy. “Clearly you were there. And I am grateful for your understanding.” He cleared his throat and ruffled the pages before him. After a moment he went on. “As to Mr. Milford. His affairs were in order, although The Pit and The Pony had been a drain on his finances. He had inherited money, not a fortune of course, but more than sufficient under ordinary circumstances.”

  “How does his will stand?”

  Hastings rose, searched for the proper box, then fished out and scanned the several pages. Coming back to his desk, he said, “As you would expect. His Last Will and Testament drawn up at the time he enlisted in the Bantams was straightforward. His estate went to his wife, Ruth Hensley Milford, with a small bequest for the woman who had attended his father in his last illness. That was replaced by one he drew up on his return from France. The woman in the earlier will had since died, and that clause was removed. His estate went to his wife, as it had done before. And he included their child, Matilda Patricia Milford, with a trust fund to see her to the age of twenty-five, to be used for her upbringing, her education, and her wedding, if she chose to marry. In the event the child Matilda died before reaching the age of twenty-five, funds set aside for her in accordance with his will reverted to her mother, Ruth Milford.”

  Which, Rutledge realized, might give Ruth Milford a very good reason to rid herself of her child. Was she that desperate to save the pub? It behooved him now to look into just how Tildy had died. He was about to speak, when Hastings held up a hand, moving to another document in his hand.

  “The final will was drawn up a year ago.”

  “A third will?”

  “Indeed. It left the bulk of Milford’s estate to his wife, as before. There was a small bequest for one Will Esterly, who helped Mrs. Milford keep the pub open after he was invalided out late in 1915. And there was a separate fund to be used after Mr. Milford’s death to continue his search for his daughter. Any monies left in that fund after she was found were to revert to the trust.”

  Rutledge said, “To search for his daughter?” The Milfords had met in Reception in these very chambers. Something about property . . . “Was he married before he met Mrs. Milford?”

  Hastings looked up from the papers in front of him. “No.” He examined Rutledge’s face. “Surely you were told? Matilda Patricia Milford went missing. Nearly a year ago. The family has been searching for her ever since.”

  Rutledge stared at Hastings, rapidly revising all he’d been told.

  Mrs. Esterly had referred to Tildy as lost. A euphemism for death. The solicitor had used the word himself just now, referring to his son and his nephews killed in France. And children died young from any number of illnesses—typhoid, measles, diphtheria—as well as inherited diseases. It was a tragedy many families had to endure. Rutledge had also taken it that way, recognizing that Ruth Milford found it difficult to deal with her husband’s murder and might find it even harder to speak of Tildy as dead.

  “I didn’t know,” he said finally. “What happened?”

  6

  Hastings leaned back in his chair. “It was a disturbing business. The police came to interview me about the family. Mrs. Milford had taken the child for an outing in her pram. It was quite chilly that day, and she had put a shawl over the pram’s opening to protect Matilda from the wind. A neighbor, Mrs. Esterly, saw her and called to her as Mrs. Milford was about to turn and go back the way she’d come. It seems there was a jar of honey on a shelf and the older woman was unable to reach it. Mrs. Milford looked in on Matilda, saw that she was asleep. She went into the house, brought down the jar, and left. Shortly afterward, she reached her own house, and there was a small parcel on the front step. She picked that up and took it inside, out of the way of the pram, then came back to bring that in as well. She hung up her coat and hat, then turned to lift away the shawl. The pram was empty. Matilda wasn’t in there. It was thought at first that she had awakened and climbed out, wandering off on her own. A child of that age, not yet three, couldn’t have got far. There was a thorough search, to no avail. Sadly, the child was never found.”

  Lost, indeed.

  “Good God.” He understood now why Mrs. Milford had said over and over again that she was to blame. For Tildy, and for her husband. Had he been searching for their missing child, and somehow learned that she might be in Wales? That was a more likely reason for going there than looking for the officer. “What did the police have to say?”

  “Very little. The child might as well have vanished. And I was told there’s no Constable in Crowley. Not since 1910, when the incumbent died. I understand Crowley is hardly more than a hamlet, and he was never replaced. But the police had to be sent for, and it was dark when the Constable from a neighboring village arrived. Everyone continued searching, but it was really at first light that the search began in earnest. Not just in the village, but as far as the Stiperstones and The Bog, the main lead mine. There are people still working there. Little Bog, the smaller abandoned lead mine, was combed but yielded nothing. Mr. Milford was out of his mind with worry. He even went into the mine shafts, as deep as he dared go—farther than the police were willing to look—but there was never any hint of what had become of Matilda. Then or in the weeks that followed. I needn’t tell you how this affected everyone.”

  He could imagine the search. Door to door, even the general store and the pub itself, then ever widening to look any place that a child might have been taken and then abandoned. Alive—or dead.

  “No one sent for the Yard?”

  “It was not thought necessary. The police questioned Ruth Milford over and over again. She had spent ten minutes in the shop before stopping at Mrs. Esterly’s house, in both instances leaving the pram just outside the door. But you understand, in neither instance had anyone else actually seen the child. Only the pram with the shawl over the opening. For nearly a fortnight the police suspected that Ruth Milford had done something with the little girl, then taken the empty pram out for all to see and assume that Matilda was in there. It was the only reasonable explanation. Crowley is not a busy city or at a crossroads. No one had noticed any strangers about that day.”

  “Was she arrested?”

  “She was questioned until she broke down and a doctor had to be summoned. He ruled that she was in no state for further questioning.”

  “You seem to know the details. Were you called in as the family solicitor?”

  “I was. And I must tell you, I feared for Ruth Milford’s sanity.”

  “Was there no ransom request? You indicated that Sam Milford had money.”

  “The police considered that as well. No ransom demand was ever made, you see. The police did wish to question Milford’s half sister, because a Mrs. Nancy Blake had reported hard feelings between brother and sister at one time. Some trouble at the wedding, as I recall. But it came to nothing.”

  “Half sister?” No one in Crowley had mentioned her.

  “Yes. Milford’s father was married twice, with a daughter from the first union and a son from the second. The daughter—her name is Susan Elizabeth—was unstable, and had been in and out of care. She had threatened her brother several times, once publicly at their father’s funeral, and she had come to the house shortly before their father
died and attacked his caregiver. The woman who was to receive the bequest in the first will. But the police couldn’t find Susan, although there was a countywide search, a missing person’s report, an offer of a reward for any news.”

  “The parcel that Mrs. Milford had set in the house to make way for the pram? Had it been posted? What was inside?”

  “That was rather odd, you know. There was only Mrs. Milford’s word that it had been waiting on the step. Inside was a single baby shoe. Quite old, the leather shriveled and cracking. The police were prepared to believe that Ruth had put it there herself, to give her a third opportunity to leave the pram outside for all to see. Before she’d made her discovery. The closest post offices had no record of a parcel being delivered to Crowley that week.”

  “And no charges were ever made, no inquest held?”

  “No to both. No—er—body has been found. And Mr. Milford refused to let the police charge his wife. He was prepared to say that he had done away with the little girl himself.”

  “Where was he at the time this happened?”

  “On his way home from Shrewsbury. He arrived an hour after the child was discovered missing.”

  Hastings drew a sheet of paper toward him, and in elegant script wrote down a name. “This is the Inspector here in Shrewsbury who was put in charge of the inquiry, after the nearest village Constable realized he needed further assistance. Fenton was on the brink of retirement—he’d stayed on for the duration of the war, and his replacement arrived three months after the events of that June. He took his retirement then, citing his age and health. But you’ll find him at this address.” He passed the sheet to Rutledge. “I’ve told you what I recall of the matter, but he can tell you what, if anything, the police discovered and didn’t reveal. They sometimes do that, hold back until they find the offender. Well. You are a policeman, you’ll know that.”

  Rutledge thanked him, but wasn’t ready to conclude the interview. He said, “Milford’s father. Were you his solicitor as well?”