Rutledge regarded him thoughtfully. “As I recall, you believed that this was Henderson’s case?”
“Early on, yes, I did. But that bottle of gin—did you look at the label? It’s expensive, not the cheapest he could buy. For that matter, he could have bought four bottles for what he paid for this one. And drunks aren’t very particular about what they drink. Unless he’d lost all hope and decided to kill himself. When you put these facts together, my guess is that he was murdered.”
“Is it indeed?”
“I haven’t written a report for the inquest. I wanted to speak to you first. I had a feeling you might not want this to come to light. Not yet, at any rate.”
“Why should I want to hold it up?”
“Because you think this death is somehow connected with that of the young woman. Some days ago, we heard that there had been a housebreaking on the same night she died. A Constable in Stokesbury was looking for an ex-soldier. Witnesses had seen him there, or so the man delivering beer to the inn claimed.”
“Does Henderson know this?”
“I don’t believe he does. He’s just come back from Winterbourne, and unless the gossip has reached him already, he hasn’t heard the news. Someone will tell him, now that the body has been found.”
“If the soldier had killed her, why did he linger in the vicinity? Where he could be seen again. He couldn’t be that stupid.”
“Unless of course he was the sacrificial lamb.” Mason’s gaze was fixed on Rutledge’s face. “That’s why it’s so urgent for you to identify him. Do they know his name in Stokesbury?”
“No.”
“You haven’t said, but it’s clear you have some idea why that young woman had to die.”
“That’s what I don’t know.”
Mason crossed the room to take the only chair, and Rutledge went to stand by the window. “Is it one of us? Someone from Avebury?”
“No. At least if I’m right, Avebury is in the clear.”
Mason sighed. “A relief, that. Does your killer live in Stokesbury? If he knew about the breaking in, he might have seen his chance to shift the blame.”
Rutledge said, “No, he doesn’t live in Stokesbury.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth.
“For the longest time,” Mason said, running his fingers down the seam of his trousers, not facing Rutledge, “I’ve wondered about the man who’d killed her. I don’t know why. I expect it was because she was so unusual. The sort of woman a man finds it hard to get out of his head. If he’d loved her, if he’d fathered her child, he might not be able to drive a knife into her. He’d have found some other way. I must rethink that, now that he’s killed again.”
Rutledge said, “What will you tell Constable Henderson? That you think this was murder?”
“I shall have to tell him. But as I said, I wanted to speak to you first. Do you know the name of the Constable in Stokesbury? He’ll have to be told.”
“His name is Benning.”
“So you’ve been there? To Stokesbury?”
“I was looking for something else when I went there. One of a dozen villages I’d been to. It was only afterward that I stumbled over the story of the break-in.”
Mason shook his head. “You kept it to yourself.”
“No. Protective of information that might prove critical.”
“You know you could have done this yourself. Kill that woman. The soldier too. You come and go. Who would ever guess?”
Rutledge laughed. Not at the absurdity of Mason’s remark, but at the reality of it. It struck him then that, failing the dead soldier, Leslie might have tried to implicate him.
Mason got to his feet. “Will you tell me the dead man’s name, if you learn who he is? His family might care to have his remains brought home. Or not. But we should at least ask.”
“When I can. Yes. If we’re right and he was murdered, he deserves to have his name cleared, for his family’s sake.”
“I’m going down to order my supper. There are two chairs at the table reserved for me. If you’d care to join me?”
Rutledge thanked him but refused the invitation. It was best, he thought, to put a little distance between himself and Dr. Mason.
Instead, he made entries in his notebook of the new information, and then walked out of the inn and went to stand where the tall stones were just visible in the darkness.
A cold wind swept across the open spaces and the sheep huddled near the bank behind the ditch, out of the worst of it. He could just see their shaggy white bodies, like mounds of snow waiting to melt.
What was he going to report to Chief Superintendent Markham? A progress report was long overdue. There was so much to tell—and so little he could tell. He rather thought that Markham had not summoned him before, hoping that the length of time it appeared to be taking Rutledge was an indication of a futile lack of progress.
As he walked on, Hamish reminded him of the dead woman in London. He would have to look into that too when next he was there. A third death at Leslie’s door?
Without answering Hamish, he turned and walked back into the inn. Taking the stairs two at a time, he collected his valise, swept the room with a glance to be certain he hadn’t left anything behind, and went out to his motorcar.
It was only half past seven, and if he hurried, he could reach London with time enough to sleep for a few hours.
Rutledge was half expecting to find a message from Haldane waiting on his doorstep, but the mail that had been collected by his daily and set on the table by his chair was commonplace, a bill from his tailor, a prospectus for a new motorcar, an invitation to the christening of a friend’s second child. He left them to be dealt with later and went to bed.
At nine he was up and dressed. But it was useless to call on Haldane, unless he’d been sent for. And Edwards had been promised another day in which to find the ex-soldier.
But there was the motorcar crash and the dead woman. He set out for Trafalgar Square and sat by the lions for what felt like an interminable morning. But his patience was rewarded when he saw the Constable he’d spoken to when the woman was struck. He was standing across the way, head bent to hear a little boy’s chatter, a well-dressed father watching with a proud smile.
It took longer to cross the street than he’d anticipated, cabbies, motorcars, and omnibuses swirling past. By the time Rutledge had taken his life in his hands and made it to the opposite corner, Constable Fuller had moved on.
He caught him up, finally, and watched the man’s face change as he recognized Rutledge.
“Any luck finding that motorcar?” he asked, falling into step with Fuller.
The Constable said, “We did. It had been abandoned on a quiet street behind the British Museum. There was damage to the left wing, and blood on the cowling of the left headlamp. Just where you’d expected it to be.”
“Then you’ve found the driver? You have him in custody?”
“As to that,” Fuller replied, clearing his throat, “Mr. Taverner is a prominent barrister and swears his motorcar was taken without his knowledge or consent. Since he was in court all day, there are more than enough witnesses to back up his claim that he couldn’t have been behind the wheel.”