Rutledge sat down at the desk in the little office and looked through the two pages of Gibson's scrawl, hoping to find something of interest.
What the sergeant had written, distilled into its essence, was that the search for evidence against Hensley was hopeless. The sprawling black lines went on.
The file is straightforward. Thefire, the blame settling on Mr. Barstow's competitor, and the charges brought against the man. But they never went to trial, those charges. Howard Edgerton's death was put down to infection. It's what took him off, true enough. I tried to look up his widow, but it appears she went to live with herfamily in Devon. The competitor, a Mr. Worrels, lost his business when the whispers had done their work. The file is presently listed as 'Unsolved.' I did discover the name of the man said to have set thefire. Barstow didn't do it himself, you understand. He hired a J. Sandridge, who was never caught. He'd been employed by Mr. Worrels and held a grudge over a promotion that never came his way Rutledge stopped reading.
Sandridge. Where had he heard that name?
Hamish said, 'He doesna' live here.' But Rutledge had a good memory for names. It had served him well in the war. He got up and went searching through the files in Hensley's box. Sandridge-someone had written a letter inquiring for him. It was from a Miss Gregory asking if there was another address for him. Coincidence? Or was there a connection? Dudlington was too small to hold so many coincidences. Rutledge went back to Gibson's letter, but there was nothing else of interest, except the last line.
I'd take it as a favor, if you burned this after reading it. After committing the details to memory, he did as he'd been asked. Although his foot was complaining stridently, Rutledge drove to Northampton to see Hensley. But the man was feverish, his face flushed, his body racked by chills. Hamish growled something about infection. As Rutledge drew up a chair, Hensley said, 'I'm ill. It's that damned sister, she's been neglecting me.' But the ward was filled with cases, and the nurses were trying to cope. Matron had ordered Rutledge to stay out of their way. The wall of a building had collapsed on Mercer Street, and five of the workmen had been brought in for surgery, along with two civilians unlucky enough to be walking beneath it. Rutledge had seen their families waiting in the corridor, wives white-faced and anxious, children with large, frightened eyes, clinging to their mothers and aunts. He said, 'Constable. Why did Bowles send you to Dudlington? There must have been a good reason for the choice.'
'There was a man retiring. Markham. I was given his place. What does it matter? I was just as glad to be away from London for a bit.'
'For a bit?'
Hensley moved restlessly, then grimaced. 'They lanced my back this morning. I could have told them their incisions weren't healing properly. They thought I was a com- plainer and ignored me.'
'Why were you happy to leave London and move to the North?'
'I was tired of hunting German spies. Half of it was someone's warped imagination. The butcher is surly, he has an accent, he's given some woman a bad bit of beef. Or the waiter doesn't look English. The man bringing in the luggage at a hotel seems furtive, won't meet the eyes of patrons when he's spoken to. You'd think, listening, that half the population of Germany was sneaking about England, looking to stir up trouble.'
The speech sounded-rehearsed. As if Hensley had told the story so many times he half believed it himself.
'It had nothing to do with Edgerton, then.' It wasn't a question.
Hensley turned to look at Rutledge. 'Don't put words in my mouth, damn you.'
'But you know very well who Edgerton was. And how he died. Did you also know someone named Sandridge?'
Hensley said, 'Look, I'm not well, I shouldn't be badgered like this.' His voice was sour. And he had long since stopped using 'sir' when he addressed his superior.
Although Hamish was accusing him of badgering as well, Rutledge persevered. 'Tell me about Sandridge.'
'A woman wrote to the police in Dudlington, in search of someone by that name. I thought she might be looking for a soldier in the war, someone who'd made promises he didn't keep. Or he'd been killed, and she hadn't been notified, not being a relative, so to speak. I told her to try another village by the name of Dudlington, in Rutland.' 'Your reply wasn't in the file.' 'It ought to have been. I put it there myself.' Rutledge wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. 'And that's merely a coincidence. The fact that the fire setter in the Barstow arson was also a Sandridge?' 'I never put that together with London. Why should I? It's not that rare a name, surely. Sir.' 'There were rumors that you'd taken money to look the other way, when the fire occurred. And rumors now that you were responsible for Emma Mason's death. Where there's smoke…' 'I didn't do nothing of the sort. Here, I won't stand for this, I'm a sick man. Sister!' A tall, thin woman with reddish hair came at his urgent call. 'What is it, Constable?' she asked, beginning to smooth the rumpled bed linens. 'I'm not well, Sister, I need to rest. I think my fever is worse.' She touched his forehead, then turned to Rutledge. 'I think you should leave, sir, if you would. We mustn't distress him just now.' Rutledge stood to go. But looking down at Hensley's face, the eyes turned away, his skin taut and red, he said, 'When you come back to Dudlington, will you be safe?' The eyes swung back to Rutledge, something in them that reminded him of a cornered animal. Rutledge felt a surge of guilt. 'I won't be coming back,' Hensley said tensely. 'I've been thinking. I could take an early pension and go abroad. They do say Spain is all right. One of the night sisters lived there for a time, with an elderly couple. I think I might like it.'
'They speak Spanish there, you know. Not English.' And then Rutledge was walking down the ward, toward the door.
When he looked back, Hensley was slumped in his bed, exhausted. The drive back to Dudlington ended in a sudden downpour, wind whipping the rain through the motorcar. One sleeve was wet nearly to the shoulder by the time Rutledge turned down to Holly Street and put his car beside the house. And Hamish, still irritated with him for his callousness in the hospital ward, made certain that Rutledge was aware of it.
Still, he wondered if Hensley had told the truth regarding a copy of his response to the letter about Sandridge being in the file. Had he even written it? Or let sleeping dogs lie.
Rutledge got out stiffly, his ankle cold and more painful than he was ready to admit.
The house was chilly and dark, unwelcoming. And he always felt a sense of unease when he came in.
But there was no reason to think anyone had been there, although he went into each room to give it a cursory glance.
Changing out of his wet clothes, he laid a fire on the hearth in the sitting room and sat down, leaning his head against the back of his chair.
Hamish said, 'I wouldna' let down my guard sae far.'
Rutledge said, his eyes closed, 'I'm not asleep.'
'The lassie. With the garden. She came to apologize. You gave her short shrift.'
'So I did. I was nearly as angry with her as I was with the bastard in the lorry.'
'It was just as well yon woman from London wasna' with you when the lorry came up the lane.'
'I don't know that he'd have tried to run me down, with witnesses there.'
'On the ither hand, he could ha' waited until she was no' in the way, before taking the lorry.'
Rutledge rubbed his eyes with both hands, then massaged his temples. 'I would like very much to know why she told me there was a shadow at my back, in Frith's Wood. What she'd really seen there.' Yet he'd felt eyes watching him, every time he'd been in that wood. 'Why would she lie? She has nothing to do with this business in Dudlington.'
'You havena' asked her about Emma Mason.'
He heard someone at the door, and then Mrs. Melford called to him.
He got up to walk to the parlor, his stiffened ankle giving him some difficulty. He found Mrs. Melford standing there with a basket in one hand and a streaming umbrella in the other.
'You missed your luncheon,' she said. 'I thought you might like the sandwiches for your tea.'
'Yes, thank you.'
He took the tray from her and said, 'Come in, if you will. You've lived here for many years. I'd like to ask you a few questions.'
'About what?' she asked, still holding the umbrella.
'About Beatrice Ellison, and her daughter, Emma Mason.'
She reluctantly furled her umbrella and stood it by the door, which she then shut behind her.
