“Scotland Yard,” he said with a rueful grin as he held out his hand. “Now what have we done to deserve this honor?”
Rutledge smiled, shaking hands. “I hope I’m about to clear up one of your inquiries.”
“God knows that would be helpful. Inspector Graves. Come back to my office.” He led Rutledge to a room that was almost shockingly neat, except for the cluttered desk, and pointed to the files spread out there. “If you can find the answers to these, I’d be grateful.”
Rutledge took the chair Graves offered. “A missing person case, recent, a young woman between late twenties and early thirties. Fair, blue eyes, nicely dressed in a dark coat, blue walking dress and jacket. One matching blue leather glove. Purse and hat still missing.”
Graves stared at him. “Good God.” Then he shook his head. “You’ve been talking to my Sergeant. I thought you were being glib with your promises of help.”
“I’m describing a body discovered in Shropshire. Tern Bridge to be precise. She was killed outside the village, then left in an open grave prepared for a funeral on the next morning. We don’t know who she is.”
“Well, then, your search can also end here. She was reported missing three days ago. Serena Palmer. Schoolmistress at a small private girls’ school in Bath. She went to see her doctor on Monday week for a stomach complaint, told the Head that he had ordered bed rest. She intended to stay with a cousin in the city, where she could be cared for properly. When the Head sent someone round to see how Miss Palmer was recovering, the cousin knew nothing about any illness. Or where Miss Palmer might be.” He searched his desk for a folder, and found the one he was looking for. Opening it, he produced a photograph and passed it to Rutledge. “This was taken three years ago. But it should do.”
Rutledge looked at it.
Two women standing together, dressed for an evening party, smiling at the camera. They looked very much alike, except that one was about ten years older. Sister? Cousin? The younger one was the woman in Dr. Allen’s surgery. Rutledge had no doubt about it.
Graves, watching him, said unnecessarily, “Miss Serena Palmer is on the left, there.”
“Yes, I recognize her.” He passed the photograph back. “What was the diagnosis? Why did the doctor recommend bed rest?”
“He didn’t. We sent someone round to ask.” Graves shrugged. “She’d taken a valise with her. In case? A good many young women who go missing are pregnant. They sometimes intend to take their own lives. Others go to face down the father. A few find a doctor in the back streets of London. The brave ones try to find a way to raise the child somewhere they can pass as a widow.”
“Was she pregnant?”
“That was the surprise. No. She was found to have a venereal disease. My guess was, she’d killed herself. Many do. The treatment is not pleasant.”
“The doctor who examined the body didn’t mention any disease. Could I borrow that photograph for a few days? The Yard will see that it’s returned.”
Graves hesitated, and then said, “Why not? If she’s your body, we can call off our own search. But the cousin—the older woman in the photograph, Margaret Palmer—has asked us to return it.” He gave it to Rutledge.
“Yes, I understand.” He rose, shook hands again, and added, “I’m sorry this was the conclusion of your inquiry. I’m glad to have a name for mine. I expect the cousin will have to come to Tern Bridge to identify the body. After that, it can be released in her care.”
“My Sergeant will give you her direction and send a Constable with you to her house. She’s going to take this hard, Rutledge. She’s been here every day asking for news. Any hope. They were close.” He looked at the thin file. “I’ll see you get copies of what little I have here, for the inquest. A pity, isn’t it?”
“Sadly, yes. Does Margaret Palmer have any idea who the man is? Or where he could be?”
“She says she doesn’t. Her cousin never mentioned him. Or any man. As a mistress at the school, she was particularly careful of her reputation. At the outset, when I thought pregnancy might be the cause of her disappearance, I asked. I was told that she’d lost her fiancé in the war and was still in mourning for him. I questioned the Head at the school and several of Serena Palmer’s friends. No one had any idea she was seeing someone. This suggests to me that he must have been married.”
“She came to Tern Bridge for a reason. It’s hardly the place to drop out of sight—the village is too small, everyone knows everyone else’s business. The nearest railway station is several miles away. Too far for her to walk, dressed as she was, and carrying a valise. Someone met her train, listened to her accusations, and killed her.”
Had they stopped at the bridge, not for the romantic moonrise but to finish their quarrel? And had the man decided there and then that he couldn’t reason with her? That the only way out for him was to kill her? She must have been terribly angry, refusing his help, determined to make him suffer as she was suffering. And he’d brought a weapon with him . . . Had this happened before?
“I hope you find the bastard.”
“Oh, I shall,” Rutledge told him grimly, and was gone.
It was never easy to bring the worst of news to a family still living in hope. As long as one didn’t know, one could still wait for the footstep at the door, the voice calling one’s name. I’m home—
Margaret Palmer looked at the two policemen on her doorstep in the shadows of the evening, and her face crumpled.
“Where is she? What’s happened?”
Rutledge took her arm and gently led her back into the house, saying, “I’m sorry. So sorry. We have found Serena, but I regret to have to tell you she is dead.”
The first door in the entry stood open. A parlor, bright with paintings of gardens on the wall and a fire on the hearth, a comfortable and pretty room that was welcoming.
Miss Palmer sat down heavily in the nearest chair. Seeing her clearly in the lamplight, he found himself thinking that if Serena had lived, she would look very much like this when she reached her cousin’s age.
He took the chair across from her while the Constable stood behind him, and with care, he told her the truth. There was no way to make it pleasanter. But he let her absorb it slowly, his voice quiet and even, only leaving out the worst details. She would learn them soon enough.
She cried, as he knew she would, a wrenching grief, and he gestured for the Constable to wait in the entry. After a time, she sobbed softly, then asked what she must do.
An hour later, Miss Palmer’s maid returned from her afternoon off and despite her own shock made tea for them. Rutledge had not wanted to leave Miss Palmer until there was someone else in the house.
She barely touched her tea, although the Constable drank his down.
“Must I see her?” she asked again.
“It must be official. The identification,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I have a cousin in Ireland. I’ll send for him. He can bring me to this—Tern Bridge, was it?”
“I’ll write it down for you. And there will be an inquest, as I said.”
“And I’ve told you I won’t attend. I don’t want to see that man’s face. Whoever he is, he destroyed Serena. And then he killed her. I only want to hear that he has hanged.”