Shell shock, it was called. Breaking under fire. But Rutledge couldn’t accept that he’d been the lone survivor—or that the shell had come too late to stop the execution. He’d sacrificed one to save the many. For nothing. And when the war was over Hamish came home with Rutledge in the only way possible. Not as a ghost, not as a living man, but as a voice that haunted Rutledge night and day. A reminder of that night. Survivor’s guilt, Dr. Fleming had called it. Seeing in Hamish MacLeod all the many dead he’d sent into battle, while he himself, always at their forefront, had hardly a scar on him. A charmed life, his men had called it, only half joking.
Rutledge had been tormented by Hamish in the darkness and stench of the earth suffocating him, and the voice hadn’t faded with the Armistice. Dr. Fleming, who had saved his sanity by breaking his will and forcing him to talk about Hamish MacLeod, had also warned him that it might never stop, that the voice might be there for the rest of his life. Enough to drive a man to suicide—and yet if he killed himself, he killed Hamish again. And he couldn’t have that too on his soul.
Now as he stepped into the dimly lit entry and found a candle to light his way up the dark stairs, Rutledge heard Hamish say, “Ah, weel, he must ha’ been a bonny highwayman, no’ to get caught.”
He climbed the stairs with Hamish’s voice in the recesses of his own mind, and braced himself for what lay ahead—a long and sleepless night, with nightmares of the war raging in his memory.
Constable Leigh stepped into the small dining room on the far side of the pub just as Rutledge was about to order his breakfast, and when they had finished their meal, they walked on to the churchyard.
The church was old but plain, with very little decoration and a squat tower barely rising above the tops of the trees. Shropshire wasn’t known for its churches, or its castles and great houses, although it had its share of Tudor and Georgian buildings.
They scoured the churchyard for three quarters of an hour, searching behind the gravestones and under the yew trees whose branches drooped almost to the ground, pushing aside the tall winter grass, probing it wherever something might have fallen. But there was no sign of either the woman’s hat or her purse.
“I hadn’t expected to find them,” Rutledge admitted as he called a halt to the search. The cold wind was biting, and Constable Leigh was blowing on his hands and stamping his feet as they conferred. “But we couldn’t overlook the possibility. The only reason she kept her shoes was the lacing.”
First, he’d stopped by the open grave, helping Leigh remove the boards and the sacking the sexton had pulled over it again, and squatting on the bruised grass at the edge, looking down at where the body had been lying. “One person put those boards across—the sexton. One person could move them far enough to roll the body into the pit. It wouldn’t require two people. And she didn’t look as if she’d been too heavy to carry from the gate over there, to this place. Was there a moon that night, or was it cloudy?”
“It had been cloudy all day, and feeling like rain. But it cleared at sunset, and at about midnight, I woke to see moonlight coming through my window.”
“Then that would have helped him find his way. In spite of the shadows.” He glanced up at the Constable. “Why did you wake up at midnight?”
Leigh frowned. “I don’t really know, sir. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“A dog barking? A heavy lorry passing through?”
“No, sir, I don’t remember anything like that. And my cottage is the other end of town from here.”
“A pity.” Rutledge got to his feet. There was no use wasting time by the grave. Too many boots had trod any evidence into the grass and the earth after the digging and the recovery of the body. But it was natural to hope that some small clue might have been overlooked. The woman’s ring, perhaps. Something to prove it wasn’t theft. The missing ring and purse hinted at that, and yet Rutledge didn’t think that she’d been robbed. The purse would have contained her identity, and perhaps the ring might have been traced to wherever she’d come from. Something a jeweler might recognize.
Walking back to the gate, he said, “Have you asked any of the other villages around here if they have a missing woman matching our body’s description?”
“Yes, sir, I sent word around that afternoon, when I realized no one here knew her. Or said they didn’t. But none of my queries brought back anything helpful.”
“Good man. That saves time.” Remembering what he’d been told about the quality of her clothing, Rutledge thought she might well have come from one of the larger towns. Shrewsbury, possibly. Or even London for that matter. “The question then becomes, who or what lured her here to her death?”
“Needle in a haystack,” Leigh commented as they drove back to the police station. “I don’t see how we’re going to find out who she is.”
“Too soon to give up, Constable.”
“There’s that, sir. But the question is, where do we even begin?”
“It’s likely that no one has realized she’s gone missing. Not yet. Her family could still believe she took the train, intending to stay with friends. They might not be expecting to hear from her this soon. Meanwhile, the friends are worried, but not yet worried enough to sound the alarm. Especially if she wasn’t certain which train she would take. Or perhaps she asked a friend for a lift, and something went wrong.”
Leigh’s cold-chafed face brightened. “That’s true, sir.” He considered the possibilities. “She could even have run off with the wrong man. Someone her family disapproved of, and with good reason. Only she didn’t see it that way.”
“There’s the other side of the coin as well. In her travels she could have seen something she shouldn’t have. And someone was afraid she might talk.” Rutledge paused to turn the crank. “That’s assuming she was the victim, not part of the problem. But she might also have been involved in something she shouldn’t have been, and there was a falling-out with someone.”
“She didn’t look like the sort who would be involved with anything criminal,” Leigh said, getting in.
“No. But that’s not proof that she wasn’t.”
“What now, sir?”
They had arrived at the police station, and Rutledge pulled up in front of it. “There are the outlying farms you spoke of. I want to interview the tenants and owners. The dead woman wasn’t dressed for a farmyard. Still, if I’d killed someone on my property, it might occur to me to carry her body to the village churchyard and lay the blame elsewhere.”
Frowning, Leigh said, “I can’t see someone like Mr. Wilkins or Nate Harding doing murder. What’s more, it might be easier if I went with you. I know them better, sir. I can convince them to talk to us. They’ll not want to waste the winter light standing around answering questions.”
Rutledge said thoughtfully, “I take your point, Constable. Still, whether she came to visit or to cause trouble, it would be relatively easy to keep news of her arrival from the rest of the village. Who would know?”
Leigh sighed. “You’re right, of course.” He made to get out.
“Can you drive, Constable?”