Ward took them into the front room, turned up the wick in the lamp, and then closed the door before gesturing to the chairs by the hearth.
It was like many farmhouse parlors, rather old-fashioned, with a framed photograph on the wall of what must have been Ward’s parents, staring at the camera with unsmiling faces. The man had the same hairline as Ward’s, and the woman had the same chin. There was a rosewood chair with a brocade seat standing beneath the photograph, and it appeared to be the same one the woman had been sitting in.
Ward himself had thick dark hair already graying, dark eyes, and a face that had been handsome in his youth but was sagging along the jawline now. Rutledge could see why Constable Leigh had mentioned that he fancied himself. It was there in the way he stood and looked at them before sitting down.
“Right, then,” he said. His boots were unlaced, and there was a button undone on his flannel shirt, as if he’d been preparing for bed. “Been up with a sick bull. I think he’s going to be all right. Cost enough to buy him in the first place.”
Rutledge spoke before the Constable could. “I think you were asked earlier about the woman found in the churchyard.”
“I was.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a photograph to show you. And the description we have is rather vague. We’ve been unable to identify her. I’m told that you travel from time to time to other villages on market days. I’d like to have you look at the body and tell me if you’ve seen her on those occasions. In a pub, perhaps, or at one of the market stalls. It would help with our inquiries.”
“I don’t have the time to come into the doctor’s surgery.”
He hadn’t denied going to markets.
“I have a motorcar, as you’ve seen. It will take very little of your time.” He’d begun pleasantly, as if asking a favor of the man. There was steel in his voice now, and Ward heard it.
“Even if I had seen her before, I’m not likely to remember where. Market is a busy time,” he said stubbornly.
“That may well be. On the other hand, you might give us a name. If not hers, then that of the village.”
Ward was about to object again, but Rutledge didn’t give him the opportunity.
“Unless of course you know who she is, and why she came to Tern Bridge.”
“Here, I’ve said no such thing.”
“Then you’ll come with us now?” Rutledge rose. They hadn’t taken off their coats in the chill of the room, and he added, “You’ll need your coat.”
He got to the door before Ward could rise and opened it. And he was just in time to see the door down the passage close quietly, shutting off the lamplight in what must be the kitchen.
Ward, his face a thundercloud, walked out of the room and down the passage, to open the same door. He said something to his wife, and came back with his coat.
They moved in silence out to the motorcar, and Rutledge tried not to think of Hamish in his accustomed place as Ward climbed heavily into the rear seats. It was where the voice seemed to come from sometimes.
It took them a quarter of an hour to reach the doctor’s surgery, and it was clear that Ward was unhappy about accompanying them. His answers were mere grunts, as if his mind wasn’t on what was being said to him.
“It’s late—” Allen began when he saw Rutledge and Leigh standing at his surgery door, but Rutledge spoke across him.
“Sorry to disturb you again, Doctor. I’ve brought Mr. Ward to help us with our inquiries. I’d like him to see the body.”
Allen stared at them for a moment, then said, “Oh, very well.” He stood aside, and Rutledge led the way down the passage to the room where the woman lay.
Allen stopped them at the door, moved ahead to light the lamp, and then went to draw back the sheet so that only the woman’s face showed.
Ward hesitated on the threshold, then walked straight to the table and looked down at the body.
“No,” he said decisively. “Never saw her before.” There was a firmness in the words that had the ring of truth. He turned and left. Dr. Allen began pulling the sheet back in place, but Rutledge was already following Ward. By the time he reached the outer door, the farmer was already on his way to the motorcar standing in front of the house.
“Bloody waste of time,” Ward was saying, loud enough to be heard.
Allen stopped Rutledge. “What was this all about? Is he a suspect?”
“No. He goes to market here and in other villages. He could have seen her somewhere. I’m told he has an eye for the ladies. And she’s pretty. It was possible he knew who she was.”
“And you believe him when he says he doesn’t know her?”
“That remains to be seen.” He thanked Allen and followed Leigh out to the motorcar, where the Constable was already turning the crank. The surgery door closed, and the lamp in the entry was put out, leaving the three men in darkness.
Ward grumbled all the way back to the farm, but Rutledge ignored him. As soon as they pulled up at the house, Ward had the door open and was already shouting at Rusty to stop his barking. He went straight to the house, went inside, and didn’t look back.
“Do you believe him?” Constable Leigh asked, echoing the doctor’s question.
“Yes. I think so. I watched his face as he looked down at her. There was neither recognition nor any sign that he was uncomfortable seeing his victim in the presence of others.”
Rutledge reversed, and said as he started back down the twisting lane, “His wife was listening at the door. She may be more aware of his straying than he knows. I don’t think I’d like to be in his shoes tonight.”
“Nor I,” Constable Leigh said fervently.
They drove in silence the rest of the way and Rutledge took the Constable to his cottage at the far end of the village.
Returning to The Dun Cow, Rutledge listened to Hamish pointing out that the inquiry was still going nowhere.
“Ye canna’ even be certain yon blue glove belonged to her.”
It was a long night, and Rutledge had known it was going to be. He listened to Hamish until the hands of his watch pointed to two. And then he drifted into a troubled sleep.
At breakfast, Constable Leigh was morose. “I can’t think what to do next, sir, and that’s the truth. It appears our victim was killed here, but her murderer could be anywhere. What if he was arguing with her in his motorcar, saw the bridge, and decided it was as likely a place as any to rid himself of her? Then why not leave her there? Or in the water? Why risk taking her as far as the churchyard?”
“To keep us guessing?” Rutledge shook his head. “No, there’s something we aren’t seeing. Ward, for instance, could have met her in one of his forays to other villages. What if someone else had the same opportunity? If the dead woman wasn’t from Tern Bridge, how did the killer know her? Was he related to her? If so, why hadn’t she come here from time to time to visit?”
“A matter of an inheritance, then? If she was removed, he stood to gain?”
“Possible of course. Is there anyone in the village expecting to inherit? Simmons, for instance. Was there someone else coming to claim part of his inheritance?”
“That’s not likely. He only had the one child, sir, a daughter. And she grew up in Tern Bridge. Besides, there’s not that much to quarrel over. He was a careful man, saw her married well, but he’s not rich by any stretch.”