“Taverner?” Rutledge repeated blankly.
“What’s more, he has a man who collects him every morning during the week. The motorcar is for his personal use at the weekend. It’s kept in the mews near his house. Lambert Square. According to Mr. Taverner, no one else in his family drives. We’ve questioned the staff, and they have supported that.”
It was the mews near Lambert Square where Rutledge had gone after the accident to look for Leslie’s vehicle. It hadn’t been there. Nor, it seemed, had Taverner’s, with its damaged wing.
“Then who was driving the Taverner motorcar?”
“We don’t know, sir. There was nothing in it when it was found to help us locate the driver.”
He had been so certain it was Leslie behind what had happened. He wanted to ask the Constable if he was satisfied with this outcome, even as he knew the police had done their work. The motorcar had been found. The owner questioned—
“Then what do the police suspect?” he asked instead. “That someone else was driving, without the owner’s knowledge or consent?”
As if he sensed Rutledge’s doubt, Fuller said grimly, “It’s the Taverner motorcar right enough. There was a bit of fabric from her dress caught in the hinge of the bonnet, above the damage to the wing. Has to be another driver.”
“No one saw him as he abandoned the motorcar?”
“We’ve questioned the households up and down the street, sir. We’ve accounted for all the fares picked up anywhere near the museum during the worst of the fog. I heard later it was thick well into Kent. My granddad swears they aren’t as bad as they were in his day, but that’s little comfort to Mrs. FitzPatrick’s family.”
“He must have walked well away from where he left it. Do the FitzPatricks and the Taverners know each other?”
“No, sir. That’s to say, not until now.”
“Thank you, Constable. I’d hoped for better news.”
“I understand, sir. I’ve taken this personally myself. So has Mr. Taverner. He’s offered a reward.” He touched his helmet to Rutledge and continued on his rounds.
Rutledge stood looking after him for all of a minute. A reward. That might well stir the public’s memory. But how had he himself been so wrong?
He had glimpsed Leslie behind the wheel of his motorcar not long before the woman was struck. And Leslie had stopped in briefly at the Yard close to the same time. But he couldn’t have sworn under oath that it was also Leslie’s motorcar that had seemed to swerve toward him as the headlamps were switched on—although Leslie’s motor had the same large round lamps. Still, there were any number of motorcars of similar age and model on the streets of London. In the fog, colors faded, dark greens and dark blues appearing to be black.
Hamish said, “Ye had your mind set on yon Chief Inspector. And it’s no’ like him.”
But Rutledge had felt since it happened that in switching on the massive headlamps and swerving in his direction, the driver had lost control, and as he fought to regain it, he’d come too close again to where Mrs. FitzPatrick had been walking.
“It wasna’ his motorcar. Yon driver’s. He didna’ ken how to manage it.”
Fuller’s words came back to Rutledge. Little comfort to Mrs. FitzPatrick’s family.
He walked on, in a dark mood. Not seeing the perfect winter day, clear and brisk, a hint of the spring to come in the blue sky over his head, until he found himself in front of Buckingham Palace. Instead of turning back, he crossed over toward Green Park and kept up his pace. When next he paid heed to his surroundings, he saw a hotel just ahead.
Was it too soon to put through a call to Edwards? To ask if he was making any progress? He was presuming on the man’s kindness, but there had been other times when he’d helped Edwards with information. They were, for all the complaints on Edwards’s part, useful to each other.
He needed answers.
Removing his hat, he walked through the elegant wooden doors into the crowded lobby, spotted the short passage beyond Reception that usually indicated a telephone, and headed in that direction. There was a dimly lit alcove halfway down the passage, and no one was before him.
He found that Edwards was in and at his desk.
“Any luck?” he asked, after identifying himself.
“You won’t believe me, but it was easier than I’d imagined. In all likelihood I’ve found your man. I started with the Engineers, and they were very helpful.”
“I was right then?”
“Close. It was A, all right, for Andrew. But the L and J were actually an H. For Henley. Andrew Henley Radleigh. Not a common last name, which helped.”
“And where was he from?”
“Manchester. Well, just outside it.” He gave Rutledge the address.
“Family?”
“You didn’t ask for that. I did find a Sergeant at the Engineers who remembered him as a fine soldier and good at improvising.”
“That’s helpful. Thank you. I owe you a favor in return.”
“I daresay you do. But will you remember that it’s my turn, the next time you call? I’m sure I’m three favors ahead of you by now. I keep reminding you that this isn’t an annex of the Yard.”
Rutledge laughed. “Yes, and who found the police record of that Lieutenant in Surrey? You wouldn’t have known about that otherwise. Consider this a good deed. Radleigh’s family hasn’t been told he’s dead?”
“No. That’s Yard business.”
He rang off. Manchester was well north of Wiltshire. What had brought Radleigh there?
He was just crossing Reception when someone called his name.
He turned to look, and there was Kate Gordon, standing just inside the Foyer, smiling at him.
She was dressed very becomingly in a dark red coat with gold braid across the front buttons and on the shoulders, almost a military style. A matching hat was perched on her head.
He crossed to greet her, smiling in return. “Hallo, Kate. I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I’ve been deserted by my luncheon partner. Well, hardly his fault. His mother has taken ill, and he had to leave quite early for St. Albans. He left a message for me, full of apologies. I’ve only just got it, however.” She made a face. “I’d rather not go home to luncheon with my cousins. I only agreed to meet Josh to get away from them.”
He’d decided to set out at once for Manchester. Abandoning that plan, he said, “I’d be delighted to step in for Josh.”
“Would you? Thank you, Ian. I’d much rather dine with you anyway.”
“Where had you expected to go? The hotel dining room? Somewhere else?”
“I’d really like to go to that new restaurant everyone is talking about. Not far from Simpson’s. Baldwin’s?”
He’d heard people at the Yard mention it but hadn’t gone there himself.
“Baldwin’s it is.” He’d left his motorcar at the flat. Asking the doorman to find them a cab, he glanced at her. Why hadn’t she married long ago? He was very aware that she was fond of him, but he didn’t know quite how deep those feelings were. And he’d been very careful not to encourage them. For her sake.
They were settled in the cab, her red coat vivid in the dim interior.