Rutledge closed his eyes against the horror of what he was realizing. Then, opening them, he said, “You need to listen to what I have to say.”
And he sat down on the foot of the bed, and began to talk.
When it was finished, when it was all over, when Sara Leslie had been taken into custody and he could finally go back to his flat, his arm was throbbing. Putting up his hat and coat, Rutledge sat down in the chair by the lamp, but didn’t light it.
After a while, he’d got up to pour himself a small whisky to help numb some of the pain—not all of it physical—when there was a knock at his door. In no mood for company, he stood there, ignoring it. But it was persistent, and his motorcar in the street was the best advertisement that he was at home.
Finally, setting down the decanter and the glass, he crossed the room and opened the door. A police Constable was just walking away, having at last given up on being admitted.
Not more questions. Not now.
Then he recognized the man. The young Constable who had been with him when Mrs. FitzPatrick was struck down.
He called, “Constable? Sorry. I didn’t realize there was someone at the door.”
Constable Fuller turned, relief in his face. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir. But it’s about that accident where the woman was killed. I need your advice, sir, since you were a witness.”
It was the last thing he wanted. But Rutledge put the best face on it that he could, and said, “Come in.”
The Constable followed him inside, looking around with interest, then accepting the chair that Rutledge gestured to. Perching on it as if wishing now he’d never come here.
Rutledge was reminded of France and dealing with young Lieutenants just out from England. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, in an effort to put Fuller at ease.
“I was wondering, sir. You said you didn’t see the driver of the vehicle that struck Mrs. FitzPatrick. Is that still true, or have you remembered anything that might help in our inquiry?”
“That’s still true. I didn’t. Have you found the driver?”
“That’s the problem, you see.” Fuller cleared his throat. “We had a bit of luck. I’ve told you that the motorcar was found abandoned, and the owner was at a meeting with witnesses. We went around the neighborhood where it was left, asking if anyone had seen the driver. No one had. But it seems one of the residents had had surgery, and friends had come to call on the day in question, to see how he was faring. They came again four days ago, and he told them about a Constable calling. A bit of a fuss, as he put it. However, it seems that the two visitors, a man and his wife, had seen the person who was driving. They thought it was another friend coming to call on the patient, and then they noticed the crumpled wing as the driver got out and walked away. They contacted the Met and gave us a very good description. Both the man and his wife were interviewed separately, and their accounts agreed. We went back to the mews from which the motorcar had been taken, and made the rounds of all the households in the area. Several of the residents and their staffs told us that the description we’d given matched one of their neighbors, and they laughed at the absurdity, as they called it. We went to the house in question, but there was no one at home.”
The report was clear and concise. Rutledge said quietly, “Go on.” But Hamish was already hammering in the back of his mind and he braced himself for Fuller’s answer. Leslie, after all?
“That’s the trouble, sir. The description fit the wife of the owner of that house. And the owner is a Chief Inspector at the Yard. I’ve been holding off until I spoke to you. There’s got to be some mistake. I can’t report that, sir. And yet the neighbors we spoke with recognized the description, whatever they said about it being silly. They weren’t aware that she drove, you see. I’m not sure myself that she does.”
Rutledge said, “Are you certain of your evidence?” But even as he said it, he knew it was true. And that Mrs. FitzPatrick had died in his place.
“Yes, sir. If it weren’t for who it is that we’ve found, I’d have no quarrel with it. I mean to say, she would’ve stopped, don’t you think? A woman in her position?”
Rutledge drew a breath. “You must take this to your superiors at the Met, and ask them to inform the Yard. The husband’s rank notwithstanding, the Yard will know what to do with such evidence.” Better for it to come from this man. The Yard would listen to Fuller. They had heard enough from him today.
“How can you be sure?” Fuller asked anxiously. “What if I am wrong?”
Rutledge kept his voice level. “You’ve done your duty. It’s not your fault that the answers are not what others might wish. Lay out your evidence clearly as you did just now, and they will listen. That’s their duty.” And he hoped to heaven he was right.
“Thank you, sir,” Fuller answered, still doubtful, but grateful as well. “Shall I let you know what happens?”
“Yes. Please.”
Rutledge saw him out, watched him walk down the street, then went inside, shutting the door. But it failed to shut out the thoughts racing through his mind. She would’ve stopped, don’t you think? A woman in her position? The words echoed over and over in his mind. He remembered seeing her on another afternoon with her sister and her friends, about to attend the theater. Smiling, laughing. He’d told himself she couldn’t have been so carefree, if she’d had any inkling of what her husband had done.
But she hadn’t been carefree—she’d been relaxed. And relieved.
He crossed the room to where the decanter was waiting.
They let the former Chief Inspector go a week later. Mrs. Leslie was in custody, the evidence that had been muddled by her husband’s efforts laid out now in clean, clear detail. She had refused to speak, even to her sister.
The lies, the tandem, the murders. Neither Karina Larchian nor Corporal Radleigh had been afraid of her. They had believed her, and they’d died.
Rutledge sighed. There was no way of knowing now if Karina had taken that wild ride in the night to the stones. Both women were young enough and strong enough to attempt it. And how else would Sara have got to the Stokesbury house again? Or whether the old man from the station had driven the two women most of the way, waiting patiently for one of them to come back to him. But Karina must have believed she was going to where Leslie was being treated, and that his wife was willingly taking her there. She would have walked, to reach him. And all the while, Sara Leslie had brought a torch to guide them to the right stone, while hidden in her coat was the knife she intended to use. His favorite—we have to pass it on the way to the surgery. He’d want you to see it.
Nevertheless, it was the tandem that had led him to the Leslies. And those lapis beads.
Leslie would still face charges for meddling with evidence. That was made clear, even while he was vociferously protesting that he had confessed. Rutledge was sent to collect him from prison, and drive him to the Yard, where Chief Superintendent Markham, only just out of hospital and still in a wheeled chair, would deal with him.
A light rain was falling.
Leslie was a changed man. Rutledge hardly recognized him. He was badly in need of a barber, he was haggard as well, as if he hadn’t slept very much. And his clothes were wrinkled and dirty. Rutledge could smell him as he stepped into the motorcar.