It was empty, he would have sworn it was empty. But so was the headland in Kent and the Upper Pasture in Hertford.
Something caught his eye as he looked at the taller building sitting at the crossroads. He could have sworn he saw someone at a window of the inn, a slight movement.
Hamish said, 'Ye're imagining trouble where there's none.'
'You'll be as dead as I am, if I'm wrong,' Rutledge answered tersely, the wind snatching the words out of his mouth.
'Aye. I'm no' ready to die. You willna' fail me a second time.' But Rutledge was already walking briskly toward The Oaks, his mind busy, his eyes no longer scanning the fields that seemed to stretch empty and forever around him. He didn't care to be stalked. It was something that gnawed at the back of one's thoughts, always there. Will it be here? Or will it be not at all? And he found himself clenching his teeth with the sense of walking once more into heavy fire, as he'd done so many countless times in France. I was in the war, he told himself. And whoever it is hasn't counted on that. If the Germans couldn't kill him, by God, it wasn't going to be some coward lurkingHe stopped short. Hamish said, 'The dead soldier.' Dead, but without a gravestone in the churchyard. 'Yes,' Rutledge said slowly, already moving again. 'Only he wasn't dead after all. He'd disguised himself. Somehow. But Tommy Crowell wouldn't have known that. He'd have walked up to whatever it was he saw, to satisfy his curiosity. And the hunter, not wanting to risk shooting the boy, had frightened him instead.' 'It wouldna' hae taken much to frighten him,' Hamish answered. 'The lad wouldna' understand.' 'And if someone had heard him talking about a dead soldier lying in Mrs. Massingham's grounds, he'd have been laughed at, made fun of.' He was halfway to The Oaks now, his strides long and angry. Someone came out of the inn, walked over to a motorcar, and drove away, disappearing up the main road to the north. By the time Rutledge reached the entrance of The Oaks, he was out of breath. He'd run the last hundred yards, swearing to himself as he went. 'Keating?' he called, striding into the bar. There was no one there, and he crossed to the door of the saloon and stepped in. The fire hadn't been lit, and the dark-paneled room was cold, shadowed. For an instant he thought he saw someone by the window and realized that it was a long portrait of a man in riding dress, standing in a leafy glade, his face turned toward a distant view that only he could see. Shutting the door again, Rutledge went down the passage to the kitchen and startled Hillary Timmons into dropping a spoon she was drying. 'Oh, you did give me a start, sir!' she exclaimed, her hands going to her breast, as if afraid he was about to attack her. He realized his anger and frustration must be visible in his face. Striving to control both, he said, 'I'm sorry, Miss Timmons. I was looking for Mr. Keating.' 'I can't think where he might be,' she answered, still tense. 'But we're closed, sir. He may've stepped out for a bit.' 'There was a motorcar just leaving. Do you know who the person was, driving?' 'I don't know, sir! I wasn't serving in the bar today. We'd only a handful of people there, and Mr. Keating said he'd see to them himself.' 'Damn!' She jumped again, and he apologized. 'Tell Keating I'm looking for him. I'll expect him to come to Hensley's house, as soon as he returns.' 'He-he doesn't take lightly to orders, sir.' 'Well, then, you can tell him that if he doesn't come to me, I'll come after him and drag him there myself.' And with that Rutledge turned on his heel, left the door to the kitchen swinging wildly, and walked out of the inn. By the time he'd reached the house where he was staying, some of his anger had cooled. But he felt that he was on the track of answers now.
16
Certain that Keating wouldn't be on his heels, Rutledge went into the bakery to find the postmistress.
A warm wave of yeast and cinnamon and rising bread greeted him as he stepped inside the door. The trays of baked goods displayed in a counter were already well picked over, as if the baker's shop had done a brisk business in scones and poppy seed cakes and dinner rolls.
There was a woman behind the counter who was so much like Martha Simpson that he assumed she was the girl's mother. Her face was pink with the warmth of the shop, and her apron was dusty with flour. He nodded to her and walked on to the tiny cage in one corner that served as the post office. Mrs. Arundel, a rangy woman of about thirty, was sitting on her stool, counting coins into a tin. She looked up as Rutledge came up to the cage, and smiled at him.
'Inspector Rutledge,' she acknowledged. 'What can I do for you?' She had tucked the coins out of sight and was reaching for a large book of stamps, as if prepared to send a letter for him. 'You found your little box from London, did you? I asked Ben Lassiter to drop it by Constable Hensley's house on his way home.'
'Yes, thank you. I wonder,' he began, lowering his voice as Mrs. Simpson listened unashamedly to the conversation, 'if you can recall sending letters to London for Emma Mason or her grandmother. I'm trying to locate Emma's mother.'
'Indeed.' She peered at him. 'I do remember the letters going out with the post. But they were returned, for want of a proper address.'
'How often did you see these letters?'
'Oh, not often-I expect one or two a year at most. It was sad, you know. Emma would come in with them, such hope in her face. And I took it personally when the letters came back, as if I were responsible for misdirecting them.' She shook her head. 'Very sad.'
'How long have you been postmistress here?'
'Since August 1914, when my husband went to Northampton to enlist. He didn't come home, though he'd promised he would if I let him go.'
'I'm sorry.'
'It was a waste,' she said, 'such a waste. We lost ten young men from Dudlington. And they're our dead. We've got seven more trying to cope with severe wounds. Another shot himself rather than live with both legs gone.' She cleared her throat, as if the memories were too fresh. 'Yes, well, letters to and from Beatrice Mason. I remember her, you know. Such a pretty girl, and so talented. I wished her well when she went off to London, and I always believed that Mrs. Ellison was too hard on her. Giving her an ultimatum, so to speak. Go and I shan't take you back. That's what Beatrice told my older sister. It's a choice, she said. I must make a choice. I can't imagine a mother being so harsh to her only child! But it's brought bitter fruit in its wake, hasn't it?'
'Why was Mrs. Ellison so adamant about Beatrice leaving? Was it money?'
'No, Mrs. Ellison is a stickler for the proprieties, I think, and the idea of her daughter hobnobbing with bohemian artists and naked models was more than she could bear. Nice girls didn't concern themselves with all that.'
Mrs. Simpson spoke, breaking into the conversation. 'Beatrice was like her father. He would have taken her to London himself, if he'd been alive. To show her what sort of life she could expect there and prove to her that it wasn't the lovely adventure she'd dreamed it would be. Her mother just put her foot down, and for Beatrice, that was nothing short of the red flag in front of the bull.'
Rutledge turned so that he could see both women. 'What was Mason like, the man Beatrice married? Did Mrs. Ellison approve of him?'
'I doubt she ever met him,' Mrs. Simpson commented. 'He was dead by the time Emma was three or four. That's when Beatrice brought her home to be cared for by her grandmother. I don't think he had any desire to come to Dudlington, to tell you the truth. Beatrice had probably told him what a witch her mother was.'
'What did he do for a living? Do you know?'
'Another artist, very likely,' Mrs. Arundel said. 'I never heard, other than that he was poor as a church mouse and left poor Beatrice nothing with which to feed herself or the baby.'
'Mrs. Ellison told you that?'
'Lord, no!' Mrs. Simpson laughed. 'We got it from the woman that did for her sometimes, Betsy Timmons. I wouldn't put it past her to listen at keyholes-'
The shop door opened, and a woman came in with two small children. Mrs. Simpson turned away to greet her.
Mrs. Arundel said, in a voice that wouldn't carry, 'I was told that Mr. Mason came from a very good family that had cut him off, much as Mrs. Ellison had cut Beatrice off. While he was alive, selling his work, they lived rather well. But after he died, there was no one to bring in such grand sums of money.' 'Who told you that?' 'I believe it was Grace Letteridge. Who got it from Emma, most likely.' Hamish said, sourly, 'Aye, the granny's fairy tale. To
