“‘Personal’ may have got her killed.”
“So it would appear. But we don’t know.”
“And you’re telling me she wasn’t followed, once she landed?”
“Apparently not. Her papers were in order, she arrived quite openly. She reached London and made no effort to contact any known organization. Surveillance was discontinued.”
But it might have saved her life, Rutledge thought.
He phrased his next question very carefully. “While she was in Paris, was there someone in England she worked with? Someone she might have come here to see?”
“There is a woman on the Armenian Refugee Committee. She volunteers with them. A number of small groups have taken up the cause. They believe matters in Turkey will be worse before they are better. But she hasn’t seen Karina.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I do. She’s quite straightforward about what she does. And there’s no reason to lie.”
“Do you have a name?”
“A Mrs. Brooke-Davies.” He gave an address.
“Was Karina troublesome? In Paris, during the conference?”
“She was—effective. I’m told her firsthand accounts of the massacre were moving. It was nearly too much for her. As for troublesome, the answer is no. Unless of course you were one of the new breed of hotheads calling themselves the Young Turks. Do I believe she was deliberately assassinated? No. Of course not. If they’d intended to get rid of her, it would have been in 1919.”
The little French ormolu clock on the mantelpiece delicately chimed the hour, and Haldane pointedly glanced at it.
“That reminds me,” Rutledge said. “L’Oreille. A French maker of fine things. Do you know it?”
“Yes. A small but elegant shop in Paris. Quite fashionable. Why?”
“She carried a compact from there. And wore a silver pin from the same firm.”
He frowned. “Rather out of her range, I should think. Unless someone bought them for her.”
She was not a whore.
The words of a man who cared. Who might have given a very attractive woman fine things. Then why had he killed her? What had she wanted from him that he couldn’t give her? A wedding ring? Had she known he was married? If she hadn’t, it might have come as a shock. And like it or not, he’d had to decide what to do about her.
“Thank you,” Rutledge said. “You’ve been very helpful.” He couldn’t keep what he was thinking out of his voice. Would Haldane have told him anything about Karina, if he hadn’t come in person to inquire?
Haldane’s gaze came back to Rutledge’s face, suddenly intent.
But Rutledge was already on his way to the door, wishing him a good evening.
Haldane stopped him. “Is there something more I ought to know?”
“I don’t believe so.” Rutledge nodded. “Good night.” And he was walking down the passage from the study to the outer door, not waiting to be shown out.
Haldane didn’t follow him.
Mrs. Brooke-Davies lived in Kensington, in a house not far from the palace.
She answered the door herself when Rutledge knocked. A stout woman with iron-gray hair and gray eyes.
He gave her his name but didn’t mention the Yard.
“Actually I’ve come to see if you might help me find a friend. She sent word she was coming to England, but I’ve heard nothing more. I believe you worked with Karina in Paris?”
She stared at him for several seconds, then invited him inside. The parlor was filled with small treasures, many of them from Europe. They held pride of place in what was otherwise an ordinary room. Horsehair sofa and chairs, a tilt-top tea table against the front wall, and a thriving green plant in the window. Very English, he thought.
“I haven’t seen her,” she said, frowning in worry. “I should have thought she might get in touch with me, if she was coming.”
“You don’t correspond?”
“Alas, no. We’re quite a small group, as you probably know, but we’ve done what we could to help the cause. I met Karina quite by accident, did she tell you? She was visiting a hospital where a friend was convalescing, and I was there to speak to someone who had taken ill in Egypt, a scorpion bite or some such. Rather nasty, at any rate. She was sitting alone outside the ward, and we exchanged a few words. I listened to her accent, and then I asked if she was Armenian. She was. We talked for over an hour.”
“When was this?”
“The summer of ’16, I believe. Yes, that’s right.”
“Did she give you her surname?”
“No. There were people at risk. They could be killed for helping her, she said. Some of them were Turks, still living in the country. They’d known her family. Sadly, they were faceless, that multitude of displaced people. No one helped most of them. Karina’s own family had been killed straightaway, because her father was an important man. She’d been in Izmir, visiting friends when the massacre began. She stayed with them as long as she dared, then was passed on to others willing to shelter her. Finally, she was given a false passport, and with that she managed to get passage on a ship.” She considered him again. “There was a young British officer in Paris, he found her lying in the street, ill with exhaustion and too little food. That was in March, before the Somme. He got her to hospital, and visited her as often as he could before he was cleared for duty and returned to his regiment.” Her head on one side, she smiled hopefully. “But perhaps you know all this. Was that officer you?”
“She didn’t tell you his name?” he parried, returning the smile.
“She didn’t want to cause him any trouble, you see.”
“That was kind of her.”
“I’m concerned. If you haven’t heard—and I have heard nothing—what has become of her? Do you know where she is, if she is safe?”
Rutledge knew he ought to tell her the truth. That Karina was dead. Instead he asked, “Do you have a photograph of her?”
“No, she never gave me one.”
He reached into his pocket and took out the photograph the Rector’s wife had given him. Without a word, he passed it to Mrs. Brooke-Davies.
She took it, smiling, and the smile faded as the significance of what she was seeing reached her.
Her face crumpled. “Where did you get this? Did they do this to her?”
“She died in England, and is buried in Wiltshire. No one in the village knew who she was.”
Tears rolling unheeded down her face, she said, anger in her voice, “Who are you?”
“My name is Rutledge. I’m with Scotland Yard. I’ve been tasked to find out who she was.”
“How did you find me?” The words were sharp, abrupt.
He couldn’t give her Haldane’s name. “I was trying to find someone who might have known her. Someone who worked with the Armenian community.”
Looking back at the photograph again, she said forlornly, “She’s suffered so much. Had seen so much. Why couldn’t she have found a little happiness?” After a moment, she asked, without raising her head, “How did she die?”
Rutledge took a deep breath. “She was murdered. We didn’t know who she was, we don’t know who might have killed her. Or why.” Then he added, “The doctor who examined—he told me that she died at once. No time for fear or pain.”