“I understand.” Rutledge rose. “No one in your parish had mentioned earlier that he or she might be expecting a guest? A friend or a relative.”
“They tell me most things, one way or another. But I’ve heard nothing about that. I am sorry there isn’t more I could do to help. I’ve been as shocked as Leigh, here.”
He saw them out, and watched them walk down the short path from the door to the street.
As they reached the motorcar and got in, Constable Leigh asked, “You’re not really thinking it might be Joan Miller that’s dead? I can’t believe that she’d dare show her face around here, after walking off the way she did. And her reputation was not spotless before she went. The village women would shun her. Besides, that woman in the doctor’s surgery is more respectable than Joan ever was.”
“Her return would depend on just how desperate she was. But then you never take into account that women such as Joan might come to their senses, change their ways, and in the end come home like the prodigal daughter. It does happen.”
“Leopards don’t change their spots,” Leigh said stubbornly.
Rutledge smiled grimly. “I might not believe that Joan Miller had come back, but I can’t help but wonder if someone could have thought she had. The question is, how did the woman get here? She didn’t fall out of the sky onto the High Street.”
“Her clothes aren’t those of a woman in dire straits.”
“Which supports my theory that she had changed her ways.”
“We don’t know how she came by them. A church jumble sale? Someone who took pity on her?”
But Rutledge refused to argue any further. And Leigh finally took the hint.
Back on the High Street once more, the Constable said, “Mind, if I were to kill someone, I wouldn’t leave the body where it might be found, and the finger pointed at me. I’d take her to another village, and let them wonder who she was.”
“That’s something to look into. I do wish Tern Bridge ran to a telephone.”
“Sorry, sir. But I don’t know who we’d call if we had one.”
He left Leigh at the police station and drove on to the inn.
Getting out, Rutledge was just bending over to look at the right rear tire when someone behind him spoke. “Young man? Are you the policeman from London?”
Straightening up, he saw a woman in a stylish hat, a floral print scarf at the throat of her dark coat, and an anxious expression on her lined face.
“Inspector Rutledge, yes. How can I help you?”
“Helen Branson. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to speak to you, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Shall we go into The Dun Cow?” he asked. “Out of the wind?” This must be the woman from the churchyard, and he found it hard to believe that her sharp green eyes missed anything.
But she shook her head at the invitation. “I have a feeling I knew that young woman.”
“Is she from Tern Bridge?” he asked. “Or possibly lived here at some point?”
“No, of course not. I know everyone in this village. After all, I’ve lived here seventy of my eighty-one years,” she said tartly.
“Then do you know where she might have come from?”
“That’s just it. I can’t put my finger on where I saw her before. But her face is familiar.”
“Can you give me a name?” he asked, holding on to his patience. “I would be very grateful.”
“I don’t know her name. I just feel I know her face.”
“Have you told the Constable that you might know her?”
“I haven’t. I was afraid it might be dangerous for me to tell anyone.”
“And why should you be afraid?”
“She was murdered. I don’t want her killer to come looking for me.”
“You’ve told me.”
“You’re Scotland Yard. I expect you to protect me.” She reached up a gloved hand and drew the scarf a little closer against the cold wind. “There are daffodils blooming in the southeast corner of my house. You’d think they had more sense than to come out this early.”
“May I drive you home, Mrs. Branson?”
“Thank you, no. Walking is how I pass the time. Although I do wish it was a little warmer today. It was, on Saturday last, you know. Quite unexpectedly warm.” She looked around. “I shouldn’t even be seen talking to you, Inspector.” And she turned quickly and walked on.
“Do ye believe her?” Hamish asked as Rutledge watched her move on down the street.
It’s possible she’s just confused. With the best of intentions, wanting to help, he silently answered.
As he turned toward the inn door, he saw the barman standing there in the pub doorway, smoking a cigarette and watching Mrs. Branson as well. He put out the cigarette and went back inside when he realized that Rutledge had seen him there.
3
Rutledge found a telephone in a larger village some ten miles from Tern Bridge, saving him the drive to Shrewsbury. He put through a call to the Yard, and asked for Sergeant Gibson.
“Good day, sir,” Gibson said, in a dark voice that predicted a bad morning was about to get much worse.
Rutledge smiled, then said, “There’s a woman in London I need to find—she’s not a suspect, but she might be our victim. I need to know if she’s alive.”
“I don’t know if we have the men to search at the moment, sir. But I’ll try. Give me the name and tell me how to reach you.”
“I’ll have to call you again. There’s no telephone in the village. The name is Joan Miller.” He went on to describe the dead woman. “And no distinguishing—”
“Joan Miller, sir?” Gibson broke in. “Well, I can tell you she’s alive. Two days ago, Inspector Kent was interviewing her about a break-in at the house where she’s an upstairs maid.”
“Is she a suspect in that inquiry?”
“No, sir. She was asleep on the servants’ floor when someone came through a window in the pantry. Inspector Kent wanted to know more about one of the sons in the family. He’s got gambling debts.”
“And you’re certain it’s the same Joan Miller I’m looking for?”
“According to the Inspector’s report, she came to London some six or seven years ago and went into service. References from a house in Shrewsbury where she was a kitchen maid for two years.”
If this was the Joan Miller who had run away with the Rector’s well-digger, she had landed on her feet. Moreover, she’d kept her husband’s name. Still, it was common enough.
In Rutledge’s experience, women who were looking to leave another life behind reverted to their maiden name, or even their mother’s maiden name, to ensure a fresh beginning.
Had she used the other man to cover her escape from Miller? What did that have to say about the sexton?
And did it make him a suspect, even if the dead woman wasn’t his wife?
Rutledge said, “Age?”
“Thirty-four, birthday coming up in May. The seventeenth, according to the report.”
He thanked Gibson and put up the telephone.
There couldn’t be any doubt about Joan Miller. The same name and the same birthday couldn’t be wrong.