It wasn’t a duty that Rutledge wanted to perform. But Leslie had been a fellow officer, and he’d known Mrs. Leslie.
“Very well. In exchange for an answer from you. The lapis beads?”
“They burned in the house. I thought it best.”
Two hours later, he was knocking at the door of the Leslie house.
The daily answered, and took him into the parlor, where Mrs. Leslie joined him shortly afterward.
He’d changed, rebandaged his hand, and she smiled at him. “Brian is in Cornwall. He left yesterday morning. But Lucy said you wished to see me?”
Rutledge said quietly, “I’m afraid he’s not in Cornwall, Mrs. Leslie.”
Her face changed, a growing horror filling her eyes. “He always drives too fast—did he suffer? Was it—was it too awful?” And then realizing, she added, “Was anyone else hurt?”
“It wasn’t a motorcar crash, I’m afraid.” There was no way to ease the blow. “He asked me to tell you himself. I’ve just arrested him for murder. He’s confessed.”
“Brian? No, I don’t believe you. I refuse to listen to you.”
She rose, intending to walk out of the room.
“It was a woman he knew. During the war.” She would hear the rest, before it was over, he thought. She didn’t need to know it now.
She broke down then, and after a while, he left her with the daily, who provided him with the direction of Mrs. Leslie’s sister. He himself brought her to the house, and the two women disappeared up the stairs, both in tears. Twenty minutes later, he asked the daily, who was shocked and tiptoeing about the house as if a death had just occurred, to take tea up to them. He sat in the pretty drawing room for some time after that, but they never came down again.
Rutledge left finally, feeling that it was best to go, and went home.
He felt no satisfaction. These were people he’d known.
The inquest was held ten days later. Leslie, drawn and looking as if he hadn’t slept, was present. Rutledge gave his evidence clearly and concisely, ignoring the swell of shock and consternation among the people gathered in the inn’s largest room.
He had told no one what he was going to say, except Dr. Mason. Not even Henderson knew. And the Yard had closed ranks around the problem in their midst. When he left out much of the truth about Karina, the former Chief Inspector cast him a grateful look. But Rutledge hadn’t done that for the prisoner or his wife. It had been for the dead woman, who didn’t deserve to have her story told.
The finding was what he’d expected. Leslie would now stand trial for two murders. The inquiry was closed.
Afterward, in Dr. Mason’s surgery, well away from the inn, Rutledge drank some of the whisky he’d been offered and said, “The horse is all right?”
“I put some salve on his nose. It works for people, why not Prince? The cuffs broke the skin, but the cut didn’t go deep or break the bone. He’s doing well. I may even put up my shingle as a horse doctor now.” He was making light of it, but Rutledge knew he’d been very angry at the time.
Changing the subject, Rutledge said, “I’ll take the gin bottle back to London. I still don’t have the murder weapon for Karina. Mrs. Larchian.”
“Yes, I noticed it hadn’t come up. I’ve been looking, you know. We’ve had a spell of dry weather, and I took Prince out to do some searching of my own. No luck so far. Is it essential to his conviction?”
“We have a statement from Leslie. Still, I’d be happier if I had it. It would be—tidier.”
“I searched the barrow from one end to the other. Not inside, mind you. But the whole of the exterior. My guess is that he shoved it under one of those boulders around the forecourt.”
“No. He’d have hidden it well away from there, I think. To confound us, if nothing else.”
“That’s an interesting possibility. I hadn’t considered it. He’s been that clever all along. Yes, of course, it makes sense.”
When he’d finished his whisky, Rutledge took his leave, and thanked the doctor for all he’d done.
“It’s you I must thank, for giving us a name to put on the gravestone. I’ll see to it personally. A long way to come to die. I saw Mrs. Marshall demanding her photograph back, just before the inquest. I would have kept it myself, if she hadn’t. You saw to it that the Corporal’s family has been kept abreast of what happened to him? It must have been hard to bear.”
“They declined to come to the inquest. Or attend the trial. I’m convinced they’re waiting for him to come walking through the door one day.”
“I pity them. And Karina had no family to notify?”
“None that we can discover.” He’d asked Haldane to look.
“Well, Avebury will be her family, as long as I’m alive.”
They shook hands soon afterward, and Rutledge left.
On his way out of Avebury, he stopped the motorcar and walked over to the shrouded figure where Karina Larchian had died. He stood there for a moment, thinking about her. Then he touched the stone lightly, and walked back the way he’d come.
It was three days later when the letter from Dr. Mason arrived in the post. Rutledge had just come in from the Yard, and it was lying on the salver where his daily put his letters.
He opened it and read the note.
There’s a package on the way to Scotland Yard, directed to you. In it you’ll find both the murder weapon and a statement from Constable Henderson and myself showing that I had found it while out riding. Stuck to the hilt in the side of Silbury Hill. It fits the wounds, Rutledge. I remember them too well. The truth is, I searched that damned hill all one day, and I wasn’t expecting to find anything. Next morning in the sunlight, there it was. Your evidence is now complete. And I feel better knowing that Karina can finally rest in peace.
He was still dressed for the cold wind coming down the Thames, and he turned, went out again to his motorcar. It was well after five, and the sun had already set. There had been no package before he’d left the Yard. If it had been brought upstairs afterward, it was best to see it put into evidence straightaway. Besides that, he wanted very much to see the knife.
There was activity on the river when he reached the Yard, twinkling lights marking the passage of small boats. Markham’s vehicle had been brought around, and was waiting for him near the door. There was room for Rutledge’s motorcar as well, and he expected to be at the Yard for only a matter of minutes. He took the space.
Stepping out, he shut his door and was about to walk toward the building.
“’Ware!”
Rutledge wheeled just as there was a flurry of movement from the shadows, and his first thought was that he’d disturbed roosting pigeons. Then someone in dark clothing was rushing toward him, and he threw up his left arm to protect his head and face, his back hard against the motorcar behind him as something slashed across his arm, through his outer coat, the one beneath it, his shirt, and then into his flesh. He felt the warmth of blood beginning to flow.
20
His attacker was gone before he could respond. A dark shape lost in the darkness of the night.
He pushed himself away from the motorcar, already lunging forward to follow just as the door to the Yard opened, a splash of light spilling out, a man in an overcoat and hat momentarily silhouetted against it.