There was a ruthlessness in her last words that surprised him. She could have been a schoolmistress herself, sternly admonishing a wayward student.
Rutledge stopped, late as it was, to speak to the doctor who had examined Serena Palmer. He confirmed the diagnosis.
“She took it well. Which disturbed me. I exacted a promise from her to come back the next week to begin treatment. I impressed upon her the need for haste, given the progression of the disease. And she agreed. But somehow I wasn’t surprised when the police came calling. She had been on my mind.”
“She understood the dangers of the treatment?”
“Yes. It would leave her barren. She would have no children. I think that was what distressed her most of all. I told her that the man would require treatment as well, but she smiled and said he would have to cure himself. An odd comment, but I thought it grew out of her disillusionment. I concluded that she had discovered he was married.”
“Did she say that in so many words?”
“No. She didn’t have to.” He sighed. “Miss Palmer was not my first patient with venereal disease. I fear she won’t be the last either.”
Rutledge thanked him and left.
It was two o’clock in the morning of the next day before he reached Tern Bridge. He had made several stops on his way. Angry as he was, he went directly to the doctor’s surgery and pounded on the door.
Several minutes later, Allen came to answer the door, his nightclothes stuffed into his trousers, and a shirt over them.
“What is—” He stopped short. “Rutledge? Has there been another death?”
“I need to see the body again. Now.”
“Couldn’t it wait until morning? I had a difficult deliver—”
“Now.”
“Very well.” He lit the lamp as Rutledge stepped into the entry, out of the wind. They walked down the passage, carrying the lamp with them, and Allen moved ahead to pull the covering back from her face.
Rutledge took the photograph from his coat pocket and looked from it to the woman on the table. He’d felt no doubts, sitting there in Inspector Graves’s office. He had none now. But he made a show of making the comparison.
“You have a photograph of her?” Allen asked, watching him.
“I do. And a name. Serena Palmer.”
“Well, that’s a relief, I must say. Will her family be claiming the body?”
“Not before we have another doctor confirm your findings.”
“Confirm—?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand. The cause of death is straightforward.”
“I expect you thought it would go to her grave with her. The venereal disease.”
“I—” He moved slightly, away from the table. “I felt that her family would have enough sorrow without learning that.”
“I’m not her family. I’m the investigating officer. How did you meet her?”
Allen didn’t reply.
“It doesn’t matter. I showed this photograph to the ticket agent at the railway station in Bath. He remembers selling her a ticket to Shrewsbury. And the ticket agent there remembers her as well. She’d been crying. He was worried about her, and kept an eye on her. He saw the man who finally arrived to collect her. He described you. You couldn’t bring her back to the village. Instead you took her to the old bridge and there you killed her. You’d attended Mr. Simmons in his last hours. You knew he was to be buried the next morning. It was the perfect place to leave the body.”
“No. None of this is true.”
“I stopped at the ruined manor house. Miss Palmer had with her a purse and a hat and a valise. I found all of them where you’d stuffed them under the section of roof that had fallen in.” He held up his driving gloves, filthy from shifting beams and years of windblown debris. “That didn’t improve my mood.”
“I was at a confinement that night. I could hardly have done what you’re suggesting.”
“In fact, you were late getting to Shrewsbury, because of the confinement. You kept Miss Palmer waiting, and the stationmaster can confirm that. How had she contacted you? A letter, telling you to meet her?” When Allen didn’t answer, Rutledge said, “I have only to ask the postmistress what letters came in the post for you. What did you tell your wife about that night? That you were concerned about the mother? The baby you’d just delivered?”
There was the sound of the door opening behind them. A woman wearing a robe over her nightdress stepped in. She was small and dark-haired, not as pretty as Serena Palmer. “There’s someone—oh. I didn’t know—” She looked from one to the other, sensing the tension between the two men. “It’s the Bailey child, my dear. He has croup.”
Allen turned, quickly covering Serena Palmer with the sheet, then moving on to a cabinet against the far wall. He opened it and took out a powder, mixing that with water in a small vial. He shook the vial vigorously, capped it, and crossed the room to hand it to his wife. “Mrs. Bailey knows what to do. Give her husband this, and tell him I’ll look in on Billy in the morning.”
She took the vial, then looked closely at her husband. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Mr. Rutledge won’t be long.”
“I’ll go back to bed then?” It was a question, not a statement.
“Do that. I’ll be up soon.”
She left, pulling the door shut after her.
Rutledge listened to her receding footsteps, her loose slippers tapping rhythmically as she walked down the passage.
“Is she infected?” he asked quietly, his gaze still on the door she’d closed.
“No. I’ve told her I’ve a pinched nerve in my back, and until it goes away, I must sleep in the guest room. Meanwhile I’m treating myself. It’s not pleasant.”
He would have to cure himself . . .
Allen moved quickly, with the speed of resolve. Hamish shouted something as Rutledge spun around to face him.
The doctor had picked up a scalpel from somewhere while his wife was distracting Rutledge, and now he was lunging forward, his right hand raised to strike, his eyes wide with determination.
Allen was aiming for the throat, but Rutledge leaped back. As he did, the sharp blade slashed downward with all the force of the doctor’s shoulder behind it, and Rutledge felt it slice through his greatcoat and the clothes beneath, barely missing flesh. Ignoring everything but the flashing steel as Allen drew it back to slash again, Rutledge went on the attack, taking Allen off guard. He’d fought hand-to-hand in the trenches, and he waited until Allen’s arm was fully extended, then caught it, and using the weight of his body, forced it up and back.
Rutledge shifted his grip, and before Allen could recover his balance, Rutledge twisted the arm in his grasp, ignoring Allen’s empty left fist battering at his face and shoulder.
He thought the man was going to let the shoulder dislocate before he gave up, and then he cried out in pain and frustration. The scalpel clattered to the floor. Rutledge released the arm, and Allen bent double against the pain, his fingers wide and attempting to flex.
“Damn you, damn you!” he swore, his face taut with fury as he sank to his knees.
Rutledge said harshly, “Try that again, and it will be your neck I twist.” Reaching down, he took the doctor under the other arm, pulled him unceremoniously to his feet, then pushed him toward the door.