The Yard would assume he was still in Wiltshire.
He spent the day calling on jewelers, going first to those his mother or sister had done business with, and then to others as well known in the City.
On Oxford Street he found what he was after.
The older man behind the counter looked at the beads as Rutledge took them out of his pocket and smiled with pleasure, then frowned. “If I may?” he said, taking them from Rutledge and examining them more carefully.
“Are you here to offer these for sale?” he asked after a moment.
“No. I found them and am trying to locate their owner.”
“Ah. An honest man. A pity the clasp is broken, but perhaps that’s why they were lost. I know the owner. I shall be happy to return them to him. If there is a reward, who shall I say found them and brought them in?”
Rutledge said, “Could you tell me his name? I’d prefer to return them myself.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t give out the names of my clients.”
“A pity,” Rutledge replied. “But I haven’t done business with you, and I would rather not leave them. They are safe with me. My name is Douglas. If you speak to the owner, you can tell him he will find me at Scotland Yard.”
The jeweler opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and nodded. “I shall be happy to pass your message on to him.”
Rutledge turned and left the shop. He couldn’t blame the man. But by the same token, he hadn’t wished to give his own name. There was no one called Douglas at the Yard. But he was nearly sure that the jeweler had been about to tell him that the owner of the necklace could also be found at the Yard.
Unsettled, Rutledge went back to his flat for his valise, then left the city, intending to drive back to Avebury. Instead, he found himself traveling north, toward Yorkshire, where Leslie had been sent to look into a murder in a village not far from York itself.
Stopping one night on the road, he reached Denby by two o’clock the next day.
The village market, he discovered, was already in full swing, the streets crowded with people and stalls, and nowhere to leave his motorcar. He threaded his way past a group of men watching a farmer examine a bay mare for sale, then stopped to let a crocodile of schoolchildren cross in front of him. He finally found a spot near the ironmonger’s shop where he could safely stop.
The stalls and tents were busy, and a magician in black evening dress was entertaining a group of admiring young women next to a stall selling hot pork pies.
Rutledge watched the ebb and flow of people for several minutes. And then a middle-aged Constable strolled past, speaking to a stall owner here and nodding to another there.
Moving on, Rutledge looked into the Denby Arms, stopped at a tea shop called The Cozy Corner, and a pub, whose sign, The Golden Boar, had recently been repainted. It was the badge of Richard III, who had been quite popular in Yorkshire.
But there was no sign of Leslie.
“Ye passed him on his way to London,” Hamish said.
That was possible, of course. But Rutledge didn’t think it was likely.
He made another circuit of the stalls, and turned to look when a flurry of movement marked a motorcar making its slow way through the throng of people. Leslie was driving, another man beside him, while a third sat in the rear seat.
He pulled over next to the police station, and the two men got the third out of the rear and led him toward the door. As they paused to open it, Rutledge got a brief glimpse of the third man’s bloody face. Someone had given him a severe beating.
Rutledge stepped quickly out of sight, went back to The Golden Boar, and sat down at a table by the window.
“We’re closed,” the man behind the bar told him.
“I’m waiting for a friend,” Rutledge said.
The barman looked him over and decided not to press him to leave.
It was only a quarter of an hour before opening.
But it was another two hours before Rutledge saw a grim-faced Leslie pass his window. He got up, caught up his hat and coat, pushed his way through the now busy pub, and went out to follow him.
Leslie kept up a brisk pace, passing through the crowded street without paying attention to the market-goers. He didn’t stop until he had reached the quiet of the churchyard, put a hand on the gate, shoving it open, and going through to stand out of the wind in the protection of a large yew.
Rutledge had dropped back, giving him a few minutes before passing through the gate himself. It creaked loudly, and Leslie turned quickly, defensively.
His expression changed to surprise when he saw Rutledge.
“What, did Markham send you to press me to make an arrest?”
“No. I haven’t seen him. What happened to your prisoner?”
“It’s a nasty business here. Two young women have disappeared, and feelings are running high. That was an ex-soldier, looking for work. A stranger. He was set upon and beaten because he roughly fit the description of the man we’re looking for. But he’s what he says he is, and he can prove it.”
“Lucky for him.”
“Yes.” Leslie reached up and with both hands pressed against his eyes said in a muffled voice, “I wish to God he had been my man.” Dropping his hands to his sides again, he added, “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
“I’d have a look at that magician next to the pie seller. He attracts young women.”
“I’ve had my eye on him. He travels from market day to market day. But there’s not a shred of evidence that would allow me to bring him in. Not yet. Interesting that you saw something there as well.” He frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“Passing through, as a matter of fact. Gibson said you were here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the strand of blue beads. They dangled, dark blue and very pretty, from the fingers of his gloved hand.
Leslie’s eye widened. “Good God. What—are those my wife’s beads? No, they can’t be. Do they belong to one of my victims here? Where did you find them?”
“In Wiltshire. Avebury.”
“What the hell were you doing there?” he asked blankly. “No, don’t tell me there’s been another murder at the stones. The doctor was worried about that.”
“Markham sent me there to take another look into your inquiry. To see if new eyes could find what you hadn’t.”
Leslie stiffened. “I knew he wasn’t happy with the inquest. Neither was I. But he accepted the results.” He regarded Rutledge, as if too much of a gentleman to mention the obvious: how could an Inspector succeed where a Chief Inspector had not.
Rutledge looked up at the church tower where rooks were squabbling. “I rather think he was expecting me to come to the same conclusions. Only in my case there were personal reasons for his wanting that.” His gaze came back to Leslie. “Still, it’s a hopeless inquiry to start with. I don’t think the Chief Superintendent himself could have solved it.”
Leslie’s eyes dropped to the beads. “You say you found these there? I don’t understand.”
“A little girl of four was wearing them. Her brother had discovered them in mud by the causeway. No one knew what they were. Just—beads. I remembered seeing your wife wear something very like these.”
Leslie reached out and took them from Rutledge’s gloved hand, looking at the strand, examining it carefully.