“Spring? When in that spring?”
Edwards replied reluctantly, “March. Does it matter?”
“Yes. It damned well does.”
“All right, you have what you need now.”
“When in March?”
Silence. “Seventh March, to tenth April. The wound healed, but his return to service was delayed until he’d regained his full strength. Look, Rutledge, he was recuperating, and I don’t know how this could possibly be of interest now.”
“It’s possible he met someone during that stay in Paris. I need to know who it was.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” The relief in Edwards’s voice was palpable.
“It’s Yard business. I’m not at liberty to tell you anything more. You should know that. I shouldn’t have told you as much as I have. Consider yourself sworn to secrecy.”
“You can be a bastard sometimes, Ian.”
“I can’t conduct an inquiry on the front pages of the Times.”
“I’m not the Times.” The connection was broken.
Rutledge put up the receiver. He hated the words circumstantial evidence. But that was still all he had.
He considered going back to Mrs. Brooke-Davies, but he knew she’d told him everything she could. The only other person who knew the truth was Leslie himself.
Karina was dead and couldn’t give evidence.
Mrs. Brooke-Davies. Edwards. Haldane. Even Radleigh’s sister. Pieces of the puzzle from all of them. But no one had the key to the whole.
He left the hotel and walked in the fog for more than an hour, trying to decide how to move forward. But by the time he’d circled back to his motorcar, he was no closer to an answer than he had been when he stepped from the bright lights of Reception into the gray world outside.
Hamish said, “Yon Constable in Avebury had no trouble declaring the deid soldier the murderer.”
As he turned the crank, Rutledge could see the face of Mrs. Underwood, Radleigh’s sister, refusing to believe Andy had died and left them with no hope.
He couldn’t leave that family thinking their son and brother had turned to murder.
Nor could he walk the passages of the Yard every day, meeting Leslie and knowing that the man was most probably a killer, and that he’d let him go free. He couldn’t face the quizzical look in Leslie’s eyes every time they met, wondering why he’d backed off from the truth.
He might as well tell Chief Superintendent Markham to take his letter of resignation out of his desk drawer and mark it Accepted.
And then—then, what would he do with his life?
16
Rutledge arrived at his flat to find a police Sergeant from the Metropolitan Police standing on his doorstep, just reaching for the brass knocker.
He left the motorcar, and as he started up the short walk, the Sergeant turned, considered him a moment, and then said, “You’re a hard man to find, sir.”
“I’m in the middle of an inquiry,” Rutledge answered, and left it at that.
“You didn’t mention to Constable Fuller that you were with the Yard.” It was an accusation, couched politely.
“I didn’t think it was important at the time. I was concerned for the woman. She died as we watched.”
“All the same, it would have helped us find you for your statement.”
“Yes, I apologize, Sergeant. But Constable Fuller failed to remind me when I encountered him some days later. Not that that’s my excuse. Have you found the driver?”
“No, sir, we have not. Just the motorcar. And the owner can prove he wasn’t driving it at the time of the accident. He doesn’t know who could have taken it from the mews, then abandoned it later. We have only the time that Mrs. FitzPatrick was struck.”
“The mews. Did you speak to the other owners who keep their motorcars there?”
“We have, and they swear they never touched the vehicle we know to be involved. We were wondering, sir, if you’ve remembered anything at all about the driver. Anything would be useful.”
“I’m sorry, the motorcar was moving fast when it suddenly appeared out of the mist.”
“A pity. Thank you, sir. And you’ll come down to the station at your earliest convenience to provide us with a formal statement.”
“I will. Thank you, Sergeant.”
He touched his helmet in salute and was just walking away when Rutledge called him back.
“Tell me, how many of the motorcars in that mews are alike?”
“Odd that you should ask, sir. There are three that are very similar. Small differences of course, but not at first glance. Well, it was a popular model, wasn’t it, just before the war? There’s no doubt we have the right vehicle. You need only look at the damage, sir.”
“I take your point, Sergeant. Just a thought.”
“Thank you, sir.” He nodded and walked on to where a bicycle stood against one of the plane trees.
But it was more than a thought. The mews was not watched, and if he himself had planned to do some mischief with a motorcar, he’d not use his own. It required nothing more than a familiarity with the crank.
Rutledge waited until the Sergeant had pedaled out of sight, and went back to his own motorcar.
The Metropolitan Police were pleased that he’d stopped in to give his statement in the death of Mrs. FitzPatrick. It took no more than half an hour. But Rutledge made it clear that the motorcar was traveling at a high rate of speed in poor visibility.
He reread what he’d written and then signed and dated it. The young Constable who had sat in the little room with him, observing him write out his statement, took it from him, then thanked him for doing his duty.
“Where is the motorcar now?”
“We have it still, sir. The owner’s asking for it to be returned, and I expect he’ll have his way sooner rather than later.”
“Could I see the motorcar? It might jog my memory.” It was what had brought him here.
The Constable hesitated, then said, “You’re at the Yard, sir. I wouldn’t let anyone else see it.”
And he took Rutledge to where the motorcar was being held. The wind had come up, shredding the mist as it brought in colder air.
Buttoning up his coat, he walked around the vehicle.
He could see why he’d thought it was Leslie’s. There was a dark green rug on the rear seat, matching the dark green paint of the exterior, and a slightly paler wood had been used in the interior paneling. Otherwise it could have been Leslie’s black chassis—or his own dark red motor. He examined the damaged wing, then shook his head. “Sorry. It doesn’t help.”
Leaving the station, he could smell the river as the wind shifted again.
He sat in his motorcar for several minutes, staring out at the pedestrians hurrying along, heads down, gloved hands holding on to hats.
He’d done what he could to track Karina’s movements in London. Looked at the left luggage at Victoria, and shown her photograph at Paddington. Visited the more likely small hotels for women traveling alone. Spoken to the stationmaster in Marlborough.
He was beginning to think he had run out of leads. And that would leave him unable to prove what he suspected.
Hamish said, “There’s yon valise.”