'Mrs. Ellison may be in Frith's Wood,' he called to them, his voice carrying as it had on the battlefield, against the noise of the guns. 'We need lamps, as many as you can bring, and hurry!'
They stood there for a moment, staring at him.
These were local men, who wouldn't venture into that wood in daylight, much less in the dark of night.
'I'm not asking you to go alone,' he told them. 'Take a partner, keep together. But I need you to search. There isn't time to send to Letherington. And there may be someone with her-someone armed.'
But he thought they were more likely to find her body, her killer long away.
He went back to Hensley's house, intent on taking Grace Letteridge with him to the wood. If anything was amiss, he'd be able to put his hand on her. She was there, shivering in the doorway, her gaze on the house across the way. 'Where's Mrs. Channing?' 'She went inside. There. She had a feeling someone must be hurt. She wanted to help.' 'Damn the woman!' Had she seen the blood in the front hall and jumped to conclusions, or had she gone down to the Ellison cellar to look for bodies? He turned and went back to the Ellison door, calling, 'Mrs. Channing?' She answered him quietly, her voice carrying a warning that something was not right. 'Ian? Could you come into the kitchen, please?'
34
Rutledge stood there in the doorway, considering his options. But there were none. The only other choice was the door from the back garden, but it would plunge him too quickly into the midst of whatever was wrong in the kitchen, with no time to judge the situation.
There was nothing else he could do but trust in Mrs. Channing's warning.
Hamish was hammering in the back of his mind, urging him not to trust anyone.
He stepped inside the house, walking steadily through the dining room and down the passage to the kitchen, making no effort to conceal his movements. And then he was opening the passage door and about to step into the kitchen itself.
Mrs. Channing stood there, her back against the cooker, her face turned toward the cellar stairs. She didn't look at him. Her attention was on something he couldn't see.
Rutledge swung slowly toward the cellar door and found himself staring at Frank Keating, holding a kitchen knife at the throat of a white-faced Mary Ellison, her eyes large and desperate.
One of her hands was bleeding, as if she had tried to shield herself. Someone-Meredith Channing-had given her a tea towel to wrap around the wound. Blood was beginning to soak through.
There had been a woman in Belton, Kent, stabbed and held hostage in her own kitchen. But he'd been well prepared for that, the local inspector knowing the people involved, suggesting what to expect and how to approach the angry man inside. Useful tools indeed. Here he was on his own.
Frank Keating wasn't angry. There was a coldness about him that was far more dangerous. He reeked of alcohol, the kitchen awash in the smell of stale beer and too much whiskey. But if he had been drunk, he wasn't now.
'Keating. What is she to you? What does it matter what she's done?'
'Have you been down in that cellar, Rutledge?'
'Yes. I have.' He kept his voice steady, his hands at his side. He could just see Mary Ellison's expression as he answered Keating, a bleakness that was there and quickly smoothed away.
'Then you know what's down there.'
'I think I know. Yes.'
'Don't ask me what this woman is to me. You wrote that you had no proof. I've found it for you.'
'Keating-I have proof now. I went to Northampton to find it. You needn't have done this.'
'Don't lie to me. What proof is there in Northampton? They're in the cellar, not in Northampton!' He moved the knife so that the sharp tip pricked at Mary Ellison's throat.
'Tell him. Tell him what you did!'
'Keating,' Rutledge began. 'I can't use a forced con-'
'Tell him!'
But Mary Ellison stood there, the knife at her throat, and said nothing.
'There are witnesses here, Rutledge. You and Mrs. Channing. Myself. And the proof is down there' He jerked his head toward the cellar. 'If she won't speak, by God I'll see she dies anyway.'
'You'll hang.'
'What difference does it make to me? I'm a dead man already. What difference can it possibly make to me!'
The anguish in his voice was so overwhelming that Mrs. Channing took an inadvertent step forward, as if to offer comfort.
'Stay where you are!' he shouted, his grip on Mrs. Ellison's arm tightening. She flinched but didn't cry out.
Mrs. Channing stepped back. 'I didn't intend-' Then she fell silent, looking at Rutledge for guidance.
'Why are you a dead man?' Rutledge was already asking. The distance between them was too great. By the time he reached Keating and struggled with him, the knife would have plunged into Mary Ellison's throat. He fell back on words instead, to talk Keating out of what he was intending to do.
The rector had called him a good listener. It would be words in this case that would make a difference. Must make a difference, as Hamish was busy reminding him. He had to choose them carefully.
Keating was shaking his head, unwilling to be lured into Rutledge's trap.
Mary Ellison spoke for the first time. 'This man,' she said, such loathing in her voice that even Keating appeared to feel it, 'this man is under the delusion that he's my son- in-law. Mr. Mason, Emma's father.' Stunned silence followed her announcement. Mrs. Channing uttered a little sound, half pity, half surprise.
Hamish said, 'It canna' be true. He died of a tumor.'
But so much of what Mary Ellison had told everyone was a lie.
'Are you Frank K. Mason?' Rutledge asked the man with the knife.
He spoke the name with authority, as if he possessed the knowledge to support it.
'You've asked London about me, haven't you? Well, be damned to you! I served my sentence, I have a right to live as I please.'
It was beginning to make sense. Rutledge glanced at Mrs. Channing, then said to Keating, 'Can she leave? The less she knows the better.'
'And have her go for help the instant she steps out that door? She came of her own free will, I didn't bring her here. But here she'll stay.'
'Then let's move into the dining room where the women can sit down. Mrs. Ellison looks ready to collapse.'
'Let her!' The two words were savage. And then he said, 'I wasn't guilty. But I couldn't prove it. I'd been out looking for work, and a man promised me thirty pounds to help him break into a shop. I walked away. I had a family, I didn't want any part of it, money or no. But when he came to trial, he told the court I'd planned the crime and carried it out. That he'd been persuaded against his will to help me.'
'Why should the jury have believed him?'
'I was a locksmith,' he said, with simple pride. 'And a good one. He'd never been caught before, that's the truth of it. He'd been too careful. And he spoke well, like a gentleman. They tell me he'd all but cried in the witness-box, out of shame for what he'd done. And those twelve bastards in the jury box believed him. He went free, I was taken up and sent to prison, leaving my family destitute. Beatrice would never have come home to Dudlington if I'd been there to feed her and the child.'
A locksmith married to the daughter of a woman with Harkness blood in her veins. It must have been a great comedown for Mary Ellison to learn that the daughter who had gone to London with such high expectations had married a working-class man. No wonder she'd told the world that he was dead. No wonder she'd taken in Emma, and then seen to it that the daughter who had disappointed her didn't go back to London and her disgraceful life. Or worse, bring her unemployed husband to live in Dudling- ton when he was released.
