His first words were, “I can’t walk into the Yard like this. A barber, please—and a change of clothing.”
“You are expected at the Yard.”
“Yes, I know. But dear God, not like this.”
Once before he’d kept his word, and walked without cuffs into Markham’s office.
Rutledge considered him. “I don’t know of a barber who would allow you in the door of his establishment. Still.”
He drove on, then decided that for a quietly passed sum, his own barber would probably shave Leslie and trim his hair.
It was done without trouble. Leslie spun a tale of being on assignment, and the barber commiserated with him, made him at least a little more presentable, and Rutledge paid him a little extra. Leslie had no money in his pockets.
“I owe you,” Leslie said as they got back into the motorcar.
“There’s something you need to know, before you walk into Markham’s office and tell him he’s got the wrong person. There’s a box in the rear seat. Look at it, if you will.”
Leslie gave Rutledge an intent glance, then leaned over to collect the box and bring it forward.
Too late, Rutledge remembered Hamish, and felt a cold shudder pass through him. But Leslie was intent on lifting the box lid.
He smothered something, as he read, whether it was a curse or a plea, Rutledge couldn’t tell.
By the time they had drawn up in front of the Leslie house, looking oddly forlorn in the late afternoon light, as if the owners had gone away, Leslie’s expression was grim.
“She wrote once. To tell me she’d left Paris. And I replied—” He held up the November letter that Rutledge had read. “This one. I never wrote again, nor did she. We’d agreed it was for the best, unless there was something the other needed to know.” He spread out the remaining letters like a fan. “I didn’t write these, Rutledge.”
“They’re in your handwriting.”
“Yes, I know.” He dropped them into the box. His voice was strained. “Sara was the only one who would have noticed—or cared—about the Rouen address. I remember I came home late that night—it was on my desk, it was the first thing I saw as I walked into the room. The French stamp. I burned Karina’s letter the next day. After I’d memorized the name of the street, and the number. It’s not far from the Cathedral. A safe place for her.” There was a long silence. “Sara lured her here,” he said in anguish. “On purpose. It’s—it’s beyond my ability to imagine it.”
“She must have realized you’d changed. She finally learned why.”
“I thought—after four years, none of us were the same. I expected her to put it down to the trenches.”
“Sometimes women know.”
“I did everything I could think of to let her feel how glad I was to be home.”
“Perhaps you tried too hard.”
He was looking out the window, so that Rutledge couldn’t see his face. “I was staggered when I saw who this ‘unidentified’ dead woman was. If Mason and Henderson hadn’t been looking at her body, they’d have seen. Why was she in England? What had brought her to Avebury? I didn’t know, Rutledge. And then I saw the scarf she was wearing. And it suddenly made sense. She must have borrowed it, against the cold night. I knew that scarf, I’d bought it myself. But not for her. For Sara.
“I realized then that it was all my fault. I thought it was safe enough to leave the inquiry unsolved. I still didn’t understand. But I felt I had to make it up to Sara if I could. Then you brought me the lapis necklace. Sara must have been wearing it that evening, and somehow the clasp broke as she—as she moved the body. And I knew it was only a matter of time. I told myself you wouldn’t have any better luck than I did finding Karina’s killer. I was wrong. I couldn’t—I didn’t want to believe it was Sara, Rutledge. Part of me still doesn’t.”
“Why didn’t you turn her in? For Karina’s sake?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t bring her back. I could make amends, the guilt was mine for having an affair. I owed Sara.”
“Did you love Karina?”
“Oh, God, yes. With my whole heart and soul. I’d never felt anything like what I felt for her. And heaven knows why she loved me too. I’d have died for her, Ian. I was willing to hang for Sara. It was only fitting.”
“I still don’t know. How did she manage to kill that ex-soldier, Radleigh?” But Mason had told him—she must have stunned him before forcing him to drink the gin.
“Don’t question it, Rutledge. I’ve had enough for one day. I don’t even want to think about how she lured him to the Barrow. I’ve told myself it was the promise of work, for he must have been desperate.” But he must have realized she’d promised more. The isolated barrow, the gin . . .
It didn’t matter. For his sins, he wasn’t finished with the Avebury inquiry. Markham had already given him the task of backtracking Mrs. Leslie, and documenting her movements from the time Karina had arrived in London until the ex-soldier had been discovered in the Long Barrow. Interviewing her household staff, her sister, and anyone else who might have helped her, wittingly or unwittingly. It was, Rutledge suspected, his punishment for bringing in Karina’s murderer. But he said nothing to Leslie about that.
They got out and Leslie fumbled for his keys, letting them into the cold, silent house. He paused on the threshold, then squared his shoulders. “You can wait wherever you like. I just want to bathe a little, put on clean clothes, stuff these into the dustbin where I’ll never have to look at them again. Twenty minutes?”
“No more than that. Or Markham will crucify both of us.”
“Thank you, Ian.” He swung open a door, and it was the small library-cum-study where he had a globe and a desk and books on the surrounding shelves. “This is more comfortable than the drawing room, as Sara called it. There’s whisky on the shelf, there. I’d offer you tea, but I’m sure the cooker is out. I won’t be long, I promise you. My word I won’t try to slip out.”
Rutledge let him go, leaning his head against the back of the chair, listening to the creaks of the house, the sounds of Leslie moving around upstairs.
He came down again some twenty minutes later, as promised, a clean shirt and suit, shoes polished. Looking better on the surface, but still haggard and too thin. He stuck his head around the door. “I’ll just make sure the house is locked up before we leave. I don’t think Sara or her sister would have been up to it. God knows when either of us will be back here again.”
Rutledge half rose, starting toward him.
“I won’t run. Where could I run to, for God’s sake?”
He sat down again. Hamish was saying something, his voice pressing, but Rutledge ignored it. Leslie had given his word.
But when Leslie didn’t return in five minutes, Rutledge stepped out of the study to see what was keeping him. And heard the shot, echoing from the back garden.
Markham took the news surprisingly philosophically. “He should have been made to face the consequences of what he did. Still, this has saved the Yard a good deal of trouble, and gossip. A Chief Inspector. His wife. What are we coming to?” His gaze lifted to Rutledge’s face. “I wish you hadn’t solved these murders. It would have been for the best. I don’t care for officers who bring disrepute on the fine men who serve here.”