At what price had Mowbray won some respite from his own horrors? Or had they only been scored more deeply into the man's tormented mind? And was he a killer at all, but only the victim as much as the dead woman in the pauper's grave by the church?
Hamish, who disapproved of much that Rutledge did, holding him to the high standards of a man who was Calvinist in heart and soul, said, "When ye're done feeling sorry for yoursel', there's the ither woman with nae name and nae face. What aboot her, then?"
"What about her?" Rutledge said. "Mowbray couldn't have killed her, he couldn't have made a practice of riding trains and murdering any woman with a passing resemblance to his dead wife! And she was dark-haired, not fair!" He suddenly lost patience with Hamish. "What has she to do with Margaret Tarlton, for God's sake?"
"Aye, that's the question. But look, if she has a part in this matter, she deserves justice even if there's nae MP calling for answers!"
Tired to the bone, Rutledge said, "If we've cleared Mowbray of killing his children, and if we've shown that the dead woman is very likely Margaret Tarlton-if Miss Napier has told the truth about recognizing that dress-then we're back to the people who knew her best. The Napiers. Shaw. The Wyatts."
"Aye. Find that hat, forebye, and you'll ha' the answer."
"You said that about the children," Rutledge said wearily. "And it wasn't enough."
He had reached his room, but without any memory of walking into the inn or up the stairs or down the passage. Closing the door behind him, he took off his coat and threw himself face down across the bed.
Two minutes later, Hamish's complaints notwithstanding, Rutledge was deeply asleep, where not even dreams could reach him. The dark head on the pillow stirred once as the church bell struck the hour, one arm moving to crook protectively around it and the other hand uncurling from the tight fist of tension.
You don't, Rutledge told himself over a late dinner, lose your objectivity if you want to be a good policeman. You learn to shut out the pain of others, you learn to ask the questions that can break up a marriage, set brother against brother, or turn father against son. Willy-nilly, to get at the truth.
But what was was truth? It had as many sides as there were people involved and was as changeable as human nature. truth? It had as many sides as there were people involved and was as changeable as human nature.
Take Margaret Tarlton, for one. If you believed the stories told, she was Elizabeth Napier's friend and confidante, Thomas Napier's lover, Daniel Shaw's heartbreak, and a reminder of Simon Wyatt's glorious past, when he was still destined for greatness. A reminder to Aurore Wyatt that her husband was vulnerable to the blandishments of the Napiers. Most murderers know their victims. Most murderers know their victims. It could be one of those closest to her-or it could be someone who had followed her from London. It could be one of those closest to her-or it could be someone who had followed her from London.
It could be that by purest chance Mowbray had come upon her and killed her, just as they'd believed all along.
Or take the working-class woman who had died and been buried in a fallow field. On the surface of it, she'd nothing to do with Mowbray, and very likely little to do with Margaret Tarlton. Was she, then, a red herring? Or was she the first victim of the same killer? And how did you find the name and direction of a working-class woman who hadn't been reported missing and who apparently had no connection with anyone in Charlbury? She could have come from London-Portsmouth-Liverpool. She could have come from the moon.
But he thought there might be one person who could tell him.
The next morning, while Hildebrand was busy interviewing Elizabeth Napier-tiptoeing on eggshells, as one of the constables put it-Rutledge drove back to Charlbury.
In every village, the one person who could be counted on to know every facet of the lives and failures of each parishioner was most often the rector's wife. Whereas in a town of any size, it was usually the constable who could provide the smallest details about anyone on his patch.
Rutledge called on Mrs. Daulton. Henry answered the door and said, "She's in the back. And rather too mucky, I think, to come inside. I'm not much of a gardener myself," he added, and as if in explanation, "I always pull up the wrong things."
"I'll find her. Thank you, Mr. Daulton."
She was in her garden, a shabby smock over her shirtwaist and skirt, a kerchief around her head, and what appeared to be her husband's old boots on her feet. From the look of the boots she'd been wading in mud at some point. She was currently pruning the canes of a climbing rose that had grown too exuberantly that year. Her hair was pulled from its tidy bun by the thorns, and there were scratches on her face. She seemed to be thoroughly happy.
"Inspector," she said, when she looked up to find him striding down the path from the side of the house. "How thoughtful of you to come to me. As you see, we are our own gardeners here at the rectory." Straightening her back as if it hurt, she added, "Mind you, I recollect the day when there were two gardeners and a lad to keep these grounds! Not that I stayed out of them even then." She took off her gloves and extended her hand. "What can I do to help you?"
Rutledge smiled as he took her hand and said, "I need your knowledge. Of people, and of one person in particular."
She looked at him straightly. "I will not help you put Simon Wyatt in prison for a crime he's innocent of."
"I shan't ask it of you," Rutledge promised. "No, my interest is in a maid who vanished some time ago."
"The body in the field." She nodded. "I doubt it's Betty Cooper, but then you never know, do you?" She set the gloves beside the trowel and the pruning shears in the barrow at her side. "Come along, then, we can sit over there."
Over there was a small rustic bench in the shade of a great, ancient apple tree, its branches bowed down with green fruit. Before them the beds and borders of the rectory garden spread out like a fan toward the house. It was a pretty scene, peaceful and quiet. Rutledge followed her and sat down beside her. She sighed, as if tearing her thoughts from the rosebush and bringing them to bear on what he wanted to hear. was a small rustic bench in the shade of a great, ancient apple tree, its branches bowed down with green fruit. Before them the beds and borders of the rectory garden spread out like a fan toward the house. It was a pretty scene, peaceful and quiet. Rutledge followed her and sat down beside her. She sighed, as if tearing her thoughts from the rosebush and bringing them to bear on what he wanted to hear.
"I can't tell you much about the girl. But enough, perhaps, for your purposes. Betty came to Dorset during the war. From a poor family near Plymouth. Many girls went into war work of some sort, omnibus conductors and the like. Mrs. Darley ran a large dairy farm and needed help. Betty was sent to her because the girl had some experience with animals and the work was to her liking, or so I was told. At any rate, she pulled her weight until the end of the war and afterward asked Mrs. Darley to give her some training as a parlor maid. As I heard it, Betty didn't want to be a clerk in an office or a shopgirl, she wanted to be the person who opened doors to guests and served tea. That's a rather silly view, maids do more than that, but Betty had aspirations, you see, and they included learning how to dress and how to speak properly. And she was quite pretty; it was only a matter of time before the lure of better prospects took her away. Mrs. Darley," she ended dryly, "entertains less than stellar company. She's a farmer's wife, not a society hostess."
Rutledge was suddenly reminded of the farmer's wife and daughter he'd interviewed only days before, who had been on the same train as Mowbray. No, housemaid to a farm wife wouldn't appeal to an ambitious young woman out to make her fortune.
"I suggested to Simon that he take her on, when he came back from France and brought Aurore to Charlbury. He interviewed Betty, but there wasn't any money for a second girl. And Edith had been with Simon's father. She's the cook's niece, you see, and wanted to stay on."
"That refusal was the turning point for Betty?"
"Yes, it was. Not a month later she was gone in the night, slipping away with her belongings and not leaving so much as a note. Mrs. Darley would gladly have given her a reference."
"Was there a man in the picture?" he asked.
"No," Mrs. Daulton said, considering the possibility. "I think not. Betty had ... ambitions. She might flirt with every man she met, including our own Constable Truit, but it was harmless, she was hoping to do better than a farmer's son. At any rate, as far as anyone knows, that's the last news of Betty Cooper." She smiled wryly. "I consider Betty one of my failures. You and I know very well what happens to most of the hopeful young women who go to London without references or prospects. It's a dreary end to ambitions, isn't it?"
"There's no possibility of finding her, there are too many like her in London. If that's where she went."
"There's no family in Plymouth that I'm aware of. No reason to go back there." She smoothed the dirt from one palm. "The war gave girls so many new opportunities. Still, I don't know that it's a good thing to offer a glimpse of a new way of thinking and then snatch it back the minute the men come marching home from war. What will they do? These girls with a taste for independence?"
"Betty had no other training?"
"To hear Mrs. Darley tell it, she was a cross between Mata Hari and the Whore of Babylon! But no, she had no skills. She was pretty enough for Dorset, but I doubt she'd attract all that much notice in London. Still, who can say? She might have settled somewhere and found happiness by now!"
"Describe her, if you would, please."
Mrs. Daulton considered for a moment. "Very dark hair, very white skin-which made a striking combination, as you can imagine. I don't recall what color her eyes were. Blue, at a guess. Slim, but only of medium height. I had a feeling she might run to plumpness in middle age."
The description came very close to the body they'd found. But Betty had left Dorset months before the physical evidence pointed to a time of death.
"She never came back? You're quite sure of that?"
She smiled. "If Betty had come home like a beaten dog, Mrs. Darley would have shouted it to the world. As vindication for dire predictions."
He said slowly, "I shall have to ask Mrs. Darley to look at the body."
The smile vanished. "No. I know how she feels about Betty, she'd like to think the girl got her just deserts. It wouldn't be an objective identification. She's not vindictive, but she was badly hurt by what she perceives as the girl's callousness. Well, it was a personal rejection of a sort, wasn't it? Mrs. Darley offered Betty the best she had, and it wasn't good enough for the girl. At least that was the way Mrs. Darley felt her friends must see it."
"Someone has to tell us if the dead woman is Betty Cooper. Or not."
She took a deep breath and stood up. "I'll do it. Just give me a moment to change into something cleaner."
"You must think about it carefully," he warned her. "It won't be a very-pleasant-experience for you either. She was bea-"
"No!" she said sharply, cutting across his words. "Don't tell me. I can stand it better if I don't know how she suffered." She turned to look at him. "Are you reaching for straws, Inspector? I have heard-various accounts, I assure you, and none of them kind-about what was done yesterday. I'm very glad those children were found alive. But I think the methods used to be certain were rather cruel."
"It would have been far more cruel to have hanged an innocent man."
She said, "It is no excuse, all the same."
They arrived at the doctor's surgery half an hour later. Rutledge had telephoned the police in Singleton Magna, asking Hildebrand to make the necessary arrangements. There was a message waiting for him at the surgery. "I'm pursuing my own line of inquiry. Handle this yourself."
Dr. Fairfield was distinctly cool, but did as he was asked.
Henry Daulton had insisted that he come as well. "My mother will need me afterward," he said simply. "I saw dead people in the war. She won't like it."
All the same, they made him wait outside.
In the spare, scrubbed room, Mrs. Daulton was shown the articles of clothing first. She looked at them, then shook her head. She was very white, her lips drawn tightly together. After a moment she said with some constraint in her voice, "No. I don't recollect Betty wearing anything like this while she worked for the Darleys. But then I wouldn't know her personal wardrobe. Or what she may have bought later. I'm sorry. That's not much help, is it?"
The musty smell of earth and death filled the air as the clothes were refolded and put away.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" the doctor asked solicitously. "Before we go on? My wife will be glad to have you step across to the house, Mrs. Daulton."
Her eyes strayed to the white screen in one comer of the room. "I'd rather-" She cleared her throat with an effort. "I'd rather finish as quickly as possible," she said. "If you don't mind?"
As he led her forward and withdrew the screen, she looked at Rutledge with anxious eyes. "I tell myself this is no worse than comforting the dying. Or helping to lay out the dead."
The body had been made as presentable as possible, which wasn't saying much. Even the sheet covering it seemed stark and horribly suggestive.
When it was drawn back, Joanna Daulton gasped and seemed for an instant to cringe into herself. Then she recovered, from what inner wells of strength, Rutledge couldn't tell, but he felt only admiration. She looked down at the battered face, tatters of rotting flesh and yellowed bone, the broken nose. Her eyes were wide, observing. Careful.
Then she shut her eyes, reached out a hand, and turned away. Rutledge took the trembling fingers and held them in his. They were icy cold.
"I-that might be Betty," she said shakily. "There's-a resemblance-of a kind. Still-Could I have some air, please?"
Rutledge transferred his grip to her arm and led her out into the main surgery, while the doctor quietly drew the sheet back over the dead woman's face. Mrs. Daulton took the chair Rutledge drew away from the desk for her and sat down with a suddenness that told him she was close to fainting.
He thrust a waiting glass of cold water into her hand and said bracingly, as he would have done to a raw recruit shaking with reaction after his first battle. "That was well done. You were very brave, and it's over now."
"No, I wasn't," Mrs. Daulton said quietly after she had drank the water and rested for a moment. "I shall see that face in my nightmares for a very long time to come. The sad thing is, I appear to have been no help at all to you. I'm sorry."
And to his astonishment, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
Rutledge delivered a subdued Mrs. Daulton and her son to the rectory in Charlbury and then, after two other stops, went back to Singleton Magna for his lunch. He was sick of death and bodies and questions.
But there was no respite. Halfway through his meal, there was a telephone call from London.
He expected it to be Bowles, complaining and demanding. Instead it was Sergeant Gibson.
"Inspector Rutledge, sir? I've been doing some digging in Gloucestershire, looking for that Tarlton woman. No luck, I'm afraid, but I've come across a small bit of information that you might want to hear. The cousins who live there are middle-aged, I'd say closer to forty than thirty. They've got a little boy of three or thereabouts. Proud as punch of him, they are. But one old gossip down the street tells me Mrs. Tarlton-that's the cousin-couldn't have children, it was the sorrow of her life, and this is a miracle baby."
Rutledge felt a ripple of excitement. "Have you spoken to Mrs. Tarlton's physician?"
"Aye, I did that, and he said-mind you, he didn't like it one bit!-that Mrs. Tarlton had seen fit to go to Yorkshire to have the lad. He hadn't even known she was pregnant. Returned with her baby, looking like the cat that ate the cream, very pleased with herself indeed. He didn't have the direction of the doctor who'd delivered the boy, didn't know, if you ask me! So I took it upon myself to look up the boy's birth certificate. Very interesting reading, that. Sarah Ralston Tarlton, mother, father listed as Frederick C. Tarlton. Which is as it should be, if the boy's truly theirs. I went next to the attending physician in York, and he says Mrs. Tarlton stayed in a rented house with her sister-in-law, an older woman. Her husband came several times to visit."
He waited.
Rutledge said, "Any description of him?"
"Vague. Fits Freddy, right enough. The doctor said they were there only a few months, until Mrs. Tarlton and of course the baby were fit to travel. They were emigrating to Canada, he thought. But I'll be willing to wager that it was all a farce, and our Miss Tarlton had a baby which she handed over to the cousins. She wouldn't be the first young woman in London to slip up with some soldier."
But was it "some soldier"? Or was the child Thomas Napier's? If the arrangements had been so carefully made from the start, that link would be buried deepest. Napier had enemies; they would like nothing better than to catch even the faintest whiff of scandal.
"Well done, Sergeant! You're vastly underrated. Has anyone told you that? I owe you a drink when I get back to London."
"As to that, sir, rumor here says you've taken root in Dorset." There was a deep chuckle at the end of the line as Gibson hung up.
"Interesting information or no'," Hamish was saying, "what's it got tae do wi' this business?"
"Everything-or nothing," Rutledge said, replacing the receiver. "It could give Elizabeth Napier a damned fine motive for murder."
"Or yon Daniel Shaw. If he was to learn what happened."
Or even Thomas Napier, if he was tired of moral blackmail....
None of which accounted for the second body.
Rutledge found himself restless, unable to settle to any one thought or direction. Every time he'd made any progress in this investigation, he seemed to slip back into a morass of questions without answers. He walked as far as the church yard, then turned down a shaded lane that led past the back gardens of half a dozen houses before winding its way to the main road again.
The source of his restlessness was easy to identify. The problem of Betty Cooper. He'd stopped at the Darley farm on the way back to Singleton Magna, to question Mrs. Darley. She had been bitter, as Joanna Daulton had foretold.
"I did my best by that girl! I gave her a home, I taught her to be a good maid, and I would have helped her find a place when she was ready. Instead, she walked away in the night, without a thank-you or a good-bye. Whatever trouble she got into afterward is none of my concern." She was a woman with thinning white hair and a harassed expression, worn by years of hard work. "I'm sorry if she's got herself killed, I wouldn't have wished that on her. But a green girl goes to a place like London and she's likely to find trouble, isn't she?"
"Would she have been likely to come back to you for help? If she'd needed it?" he'd asked. "If she'd found herself in trouble?"
The room was full of sunlight, but there was a darkness in Mrs. Darley's face. "She'd have been sent away with a flea in her ear, if she had! I have no patience with these modern girls who don't know their place or their duty."
"Was there anyone she was close to in the neighborhood? A man or a woman? A maid at someone else's home?"
"Women didn't much care for her, she put on airs. Above herself, she was. As for men, they'd come around, as men will, but she wouldn't give them the time of day either. Saving herself for better things, she was. Well, that's all right in its way, but she had notions she shouldn't of. When Henry Daulton came back from the war, she said if he hadn't been wounded so bad, she'd have had a fancy for him. Then she met Simon Wyatt, and she was all for finding herself a gentleman. Mr. Wyatt had interviewed her only as a favor to Mrs. Daulton, but she couldn't see that, could she? Took it personal, just because he'd seen her himself, rather than leaving her to his French wife."
"She told you this?" Rutledge asked, surprised.
"Lord save us, no! I overheard her talking to one of the cowmen. He was teasing her, like, and she said a gentleman didn't have dirt under his nails nor smell of sweat, nor drink himself into a stupor of a Saturday night, and knew how to treat a lady. Much taken with Mr. Wyatt she was. She said he'd gone and got himself a French wife, but it wouldn't last. He was home now, and not in France. That's when I came around the corner from looking at the cream pans and told her I'd not have talk like that under my roof. My late husband didn't stand for that kind of sauciness, and neither do I! It wasn't more than ten days later, if that long, before she was gone. And I haven't seen her, nor wanted to, since. I don't wish her harm, no, but some learn the hard way, don't they?"
Rutledge also tracked down Constable Truit, who had-according to Joanna Daulton-tried to court the dead woman.
He shook his head when Rutledge began his questions. "Inspector Hildebrand asked me to have a look at the body when it was first brought in. I couldn't see any likeness to Betty. Miss Cooper. Sleek as a cat, she was, sunning itself in the window. Not like this one, thin, cheap clothes and shoes. Not Betty's style." His confidence was solid, convincing.
Rutledge wondered if Truit saw what he wanted to see or if this was a considered opinion. All the same, the answer contradicted Mrs. Daulton's tentative identification.
A dead end. And yet ... if the dead woman was Betty Cooper, she'd come back to Dorset. Someone had killed her, when she did, to silence her.
Just as someone had killed Margaret Tarlton, when she came back to Charlbury for the first time since 1914.
"That's wild supposition," Hamish said.
But was it?