Rutledge, watching Henderson’s face, saw the same protectiveness Dr. Mason had mentioned. He’d felt it himself.
Remembering the photograph, he said, “Was there anything in her face when you brought Leslie to see her?”
“I didn’t notice. I was too busy looking at the way her hair spilled across the table and caught the light.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
Rutledge left soon afterward, thanking Henderson for his help and offering sympathy for the death of his brother.
“We weren’t prepared,” the Constable said quietly. “But then you never are, are you?”
He wasn’t sure whether Henderson was referring to his brother’s death or what he’d felt about the murder on his patch.
Soon afterward, on a whim—needing to do more than search ground he’d covered, Leslie had covered, and hear the same answers from those who had been interviewed twice over—Rutledge set out for Dover. The Rector’s wife had said the scarf the dead woman was wearing might be French silk, and Haldane had mentioned refugees. It would do no harm to try.
Southampton was nearer, but it was Dover or even Folkestone where travelers most often arrived from France and the rest of Europe. He wasn’t certain what he could find this long after the fact, but he had the photograph. If Henderson and Mason and even Leslie had been moved by the dead woman, then someone in the port towns might remember her as well. Surely there was a man or even a woman who had seen her alive and given her more than a passing glance.
The sun was just coming up, burnishing the water, and turning what he could see of the chalk cliffs a delicate apricot. He found a room at one of the hotels overlooking the water, where he shaved and changed, ate a hasty breakfast, and walked down to the port to catch the night officials before they went off duty.
They stared at the photograph, asked a few questions, then shook their heads.
One of the younger officials said, “I’d remember her. Pity she’s dead.”
It gave him hope.
He spent the better part of the day speaking to anyone who handled the ferries coming in from France, then as soon as there was a lull in the traffic coming and going to Calais, he sought out the officials who dealt with passengers and their papers.
In late evening, he found one man on duty who looked at the photograph and said, “Familiar. Is she dead, then? I’m sorry. Who is she?”
He was tall, thin, possibly mid-thirties. Young enough to remember a pretty face. Rutledge refused to let himself hope.
“That’s the problem. No one seems to know who she is.”
“That’s a shame. If you had a name, now, I might be able to check our records.” He looked again at the photograph, then handed it back to Rutledge. “A pity.”
“She came through recently. Say, after the first of the year? Mid-January? Later? Surely there aren’t that many travelers making the crossing in winter.”
“It’s never quiet. But women alone, that’s not as usual. Was she alone?”
“I expect she was. I can’t be certain.”
“Perhaps that’s why I remember her, then.” He smiled guiltily. “It does no harm, chatting them up. After the stiff-faced officers, Swiss bankers, and those without any English, it’s pleasant to talk to a pretty face. Sets them at ease, as well.”
“What language did she speak?”
The official had picked up his glasses to scan the roads outside Dover harbor, watching the craft coming in. “Good enough English,” he said absently. “She must have done. She asked for the train to Lon—” He broke off, lowering the glasses to stare at Rutledge. “Now why should I remember that?” He shook his head. “Do you have any idea how many people pass through here, now the war’s over? I’m lucky to remember my own name by the end of the day.”
“What about the London train?”
“I didn’t—it just came to me out of nowhere.” He looked down at the glasses in his hand, thinking. “It must have been the late ferry she’d taken across. She seemed—I don’t know—lost.”
“What do you mean? Lost? Tired?”
“I don’t—not in the sense—uncertain?” He lifted a shoulder, looking for the word. “Uncertain of her welcome, perhaps? Didn’t appear that there was anyone meeting her, no one to show her where to find the train.”
It was an interesting insight.
The man was saying apologetically, “I can’t be sure, now, it might not have been the same woman.” He gestured to the photograph in Rutledge’s hand. “I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do.”
Rutledge thanked him and said, “I’ll be at The Cliffs. If you remember anything else.”
“What’s she done?” the man asked. “To bring in the Yard?”
“Nothing. It was what was done to her,” Rutledge answered somberly.
The man retorted grimly, “I wish I’d known. I’d have seen her to the train.”
Rutledge didn’t tell him she had died in Wiltshire, not Dover.
“There was nothing you could do.” With a nod, he walked away.
“No’ much help,” Hamish said. He’d been there, silently watching, hour after hour. A presence that Rutledge could feel. It had been wearying after a while, that presence. Sometimes dividing his attention.
“It could have been Folkestone. Southampton.” Rutledge walked back to his motorcar. “I’ll try Folkestone tomorrow.”
It was too late to drive far, and he’d already told the port official that he was staying at The Cliffs. Without waiting to dine, he went up to his room and dropped down across the bed. And slept deeply for six hours.
He woke to someone pounding on his door, and it took several seconds to remember where he was. The windows were still dark—he had no idea what the time was. Throwing off the last dregs of sleep, he went to the door and found one of the hotel clerks standing there.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Rutledge. But there’s a man at the desk asking to see you. He’s from the port, he says.”
“I’ll be down in five minutes.”
“I’ll ask him to wait in the lounge, shall I?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Rutledge washed his face, combed his dark hair, and straightened his shirt and tie. Putting on his suit coat, he went quickly down the stairs.
The dining room was closed, the lounge almost empty. He recognized the man who rose and came forward as Rutledge stepped into the room.
“Rutledge? James Westin. From the port? I was curious enough to do some digging.”
Rutledge chose a table far enough away from the only other inhabitant so that they could speak privately. “What have you found?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. But I kept thinking about the photograph, and her face stayed with me. I wasn’t sure in the beginning that I did remember her, to tell truth. It wasn’t until I was about to go off duty that something else came back to me. Her eyes. That’s what attracted me to her, that’s why I looked for an excuse to talk to her. To watch a smile light them.”
In the photograph her eyes were closed in death.
“I think she had French papers. They were in order, I didn’t pay much attention to them. I had a feeling that France might not be her country, but there was nothing unusual about that. I made her laugh once, just a quiet laugh, but it was nice. She had a valise—I reached out to help her, asking if she needed a porter. It wasn’t very heavy, as if she hadn’t brought much with her, and she said she could manage it. Most can barely lift theirs, bulging out the sides. I looked to see, after she’d asked, and she was walking toward the London train. Still by herself.”