This part of Wiltshire was cluttered with remains of a past so distant that it was lost in the shadows of time. There were even chalk horses cut into the hillsides—not like the graceful running horse at Uffington—but still impressive.
There were long barrows and round barrows and chambered tombs standing out in the flat land of the plain as Rutledge drove up along the Kennet Avenue. He recognized Silbury Hill and the Long Barrow, a man-made ridge. Once, he’d eaten his lunch on top of the Long Barrow and lost count of the sites he could see from there.
The causeway into Avebury over the ancient ditch was just ahead, and he slowed to pass between the two stones guarding the approach.
Hamish had not been happy from the moment they had begun to see the first Neolithic sites. His Covenanter soul had no time for these strange ancient places, and he had let Rutledge know how he felt.
Ignoring him as best he could, Rutledge slowed again to gaze at the stones still standing in the quadrant to his left. A sad few. He’d seen them before, once with his parents on an excursion and later on a walking tour that one summer. But they seemed fewer now, and in the gray of a winter morning, somehow desolate, as if they’d lost their way.
Sheep grazed among them, oblivious to their importance, and one ewe was scratching her back against the rough side of one megalith, moving rhythmically back and forth, some of her thick coat of wool catching there. Another ewe knelt by the edge of the ditch, craning her neck to feed on a patch of grass growing nearly out of reach below.
There had been cattle here, Rutledge remembered, when he’d walked through the village.
Which was the stone where the woman’s body had been found? He couldn’t be sure from Leslie’s notes. And by now, any evidence had either been found straightaway or trampled into the grass. Any possibility of finding something that Leslie had missed was so remote he felt a wave of frustration. Rutledge had no illusions. Chief Superintendent Markham had sent him here expecting him to fail.
He drove on, and to his right could see the inn where Leslie had taken a room for the duration of the inquiry. It was just beyond where the road he was on ended at a junction, a T. Instead of going directly to the police station or to the inn to bespeak a room, Rutledge decided as early as it was that he would survey the village and familiarize himself with it again. He hadn’t seen it with a policeman’s eye when he’d passed through on his walking tour.
Taking the left-hand turn, he glimpsed the churchyard at the foot of the gentle slope ahead. The manor house, also in this direction, wouldn’t be visible yet, for it was farther along the lane that passed by the church, its extensive gardens protected now from the winter. He could see how the ditch had been replaced along here by the building of the village.
On his left he was now parallel with the stones, and he could see them standing out against the murky sky, sentinels on a grassy, man-made plateau. Their size from this vantage point was deceptive.
Rutledge sat there for a moment, gazing at them, and then became aware of being watched.
Just past where the ditch ended prematurely was a house set back from the road. He could pick out the rooftop over a line of trees that concealed what was on the far side of the ditch. A man with white hair stood there, a hammer in his hand, staring toward Rutledge.
He’d been mending a section of the wooden fence that separated his property from the road. Waiting until Rutledge picked up speed a little and came abreast of him, he said, his expression speculative, “Looking for someone?”
Rutledge had hoped to arrive unnoticed in the village, to take his time and reconnoiter before announcing his presence. That, besides his weariness and a need for petrol, had decided him to stop the night in Marlborough and continue toward Avebury this morning.
So much for well-laid plans, he thought wryly.
He quickly revised his intentions. Reaching for the brake, he brought the motorcar to a halt by the man.
“Yes. The Constable.”
“Constable Henderson has gone to visit his brother for a few days. He’s been taken ill—the brother. I’m Dr. Mason. How can I help you?”
“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard.”
The doctor’s expression was still wary. “The Chief Constable sent word that someone was coming to take over the inquiry. The inquest had left it at person or persons unknown.”
Rutledge swore to himself. It was just like Chief Superintendent Markham to alert the Chief Constable that the Yard was sending another man to take Chief Inspector Leslie’s place. It would have been better to let the new man follow his own instincts, and reopen the inquiry as he saw fit.
He said, nodding, “I’ve been sent to take a fresh look into the matter of the body found here recently. Yes.”
“I’m not surprised Leslie couldn’t find any answers. Whoever killed that poor woman left nothing behind.” Dr. Mason took a packet of nails out of his pocket and dropped them into the pail at his feet. Dusting his hands, he said, “I can show you what there is to see. God knows I had enough opportunity to commit the lot to memory.” Gesturing toward his fence, he added, “It’s to keep the sheep out. My late wife didn’t care for them eating her garden flowers. I’ve got into the habit of keeping up the good work.”
He left the pail beside his gate, and without asking if this was agreeable with Rutledge or not, opened the door to the motorcar and stepped in.
“Do you know Leslie well?” he asked, turning to consider Rutledge again. As if weighing him up.
“Yes. We’re friends.” It was true enough, even though there was little social interaction outside Yard events. They’d dined together a time or two, but Leslie was married, and the married officers tended to club together. Rutledge began reversing, to drive back the way he’d come.
“Then I don’t have to tell you he’s thorough.”
“I’ve seen his report. I agree with you.” He stopped, waiting for Mason to tell him where to drive next. “I assume you saw the body. Do you think the woman was killed elsewhere or brought here to die?”
“Killed just there at the stone, I should think. That’s where we found the bruised grass and the bloody ground. Then the body was dragged to the ditch, where it lay out of sight until we looked for it. Well, it makes sense, you know. We’re some distance from the next village, and that’s a long way to carry a dead body. They’re heavier than most people expect. What’s more, no one heard a cart or a motorcar that night. That would suggest the woman was still alive and either came here of her own free will or was under duress.” He shook his head. “This is hardly the place for a romantic encounter. I can’t really see how one could persuade a sweetheart to come all this way, just for a few stolen kisses. And the day and age when it was believed that the stones had some mystical properties is for the most part long past. Still, there are those who want to believe they have powers. I expect there will always be.”
“Have you lived here long?” Rutledge asked, glancing at his passenger. Close to, he looked older than he had standing there by the fence. In his late sixties, perhaps?
“My wife was born in that house. Our house now. But I was in Bristol for most of my career. She persuaded me to retire and bring her back to Avebury. There’s no other doctor here. He was killed in the war, and so people were happy enough for someone to take his place. Did you know, in the early days of the war, doctors stood in the trenches and fought like everyone else, doing what they could for the wounded meanwhile? The Army finally got clever enough to see what a waste that was, and stopped the practice. But of course you were in the war? I needn’t tell you that.”