Rutledge said, “Very likely. And the wife’s sister may have feared that something was going to happen. Not precisely murder, but perhaps that the husband might walk away one evening and never come back. It may explain why she told someone. Why he waited until her visit to act.”
He collected all the papers he had been reading and locked them in his valise before calling it a night.
And found it hard to sleep. Not because of the nightmares that always hovered so close in the dark, but because he felt for the first time that he understood what Miles Franklin was.
As soon as the first rays of dawn brightened his window, he got up, dressed, and went down to his motorcar. On the drive ahead, he used his time to arrange his thoughts.
Rutledge walked into the hotel in Colchester where he’d used the telephone earlier, and despite the early hour, he put through a call to Haldane.
“We need to meet,” he said as soon as the man had come to the telephone. “There’s something we must discuss. About that matter of business in France, and about what I’ve learned here.”
“Come to London.”
“There isn’t time. We must meet halfway. It’s urgent.”
“Very well. There’s a small inn outside Little Upton. Do you know the village?”
“I don’t. I’ll find it.”
The line went dead.
Rutledge went to the front desk and asked if the clerk knew Little Upton.
“Yes, sir. It’s just across into Hertfordshire. Only a village. No hotel there to recommend—”
“I need to find it. Not to stay the night.”
The clerk provided him with a rough map, and Rutledge thanked him. The hotel’s dining room was just opening, and he stopped for a cup of tea. And then he went back to the small, uncomfortable telephone closet. Against his own better judgment.
He had given Kate space in which to work out her problems with her father. Trusting in Melinda to see that all was well. Much as he would have liked to take the matter in hand, for Kate’s sake, he knew that would only cause more trouble for her. Mrs. Gordon had made it plain that a policeman had no room in her daughter’s future.
Shanta answered the phone. He quickly recognized the guarded tone of voice.
Was there trouble?
He kept his own voice light as he greeted her, and was rewarded with a relieved, more cheerful, “Good morning. Madame will be glad you have called.”
And there was silence at the other end until Melinda herself said, “Good morning, Ian. It’s quite early.”
He made himself laugh. “And so it is.” He paused, then said more seriously, “I’ve been caught up in the latest inquiry. I also felt that it was best not to add my presence to Kate’s troubles.”
“That was wise. I’ve come to like her immensely, Ian. I’m glad you brought her to me. We went to Rochester at the weekend, to visit the haunts of Mr. Dickens. It was a very nice outing.”
Hardly the information he was after.
“Have matters improved with her family?”
“I think not.”
“Let me know if there’s anything you need. Anything I can do.”
“It’s best if you don’t. Do you mind?”
Something was wrong, he could hear it in Melinda’s choice of wording.
Formal, almost cold. As if he himself were somehow at fault.
He couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Is it something I have done? Was I wrong to interfere?”
For the first time there was that familiar warmth in her voice. “My dear Ian, of course not. I’m so glad you called. I’ve wanted to ask about Essex. Is it going well? Have you found any answers?”
“I think I’m about to.”
“I should like to know the outcome, when you are free to talk about it.”
“I’ll call again when I’m back in London.”
“Yes, please, I’d like that very much.”
And she rang off.
The only message that he’d been sure of in their conversation, was that Melinda had taken to Kate. She had disliked Jean, Kate’s cousin, had felt that he shouldn’t propose to her. And he hadn’t listened, he’d been so besotted with Jean and her effervescence, her charm, that he hadn’t seen beneath them to the selfishness they concealed. He’d known she liked having her own way, but he hadn’t realized that it was more than just her upbringing as an only daughter. It was her true nature.
The operator’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Do you wish to place another call?”
He hadn’t realized that he was still holding the receiver in his hand.
“No, thank you.” He put it up.
And now he had to face Haldane.
15
Little Upton lived up to its name, Little. As Rutledge passed through it, he found that it was the perfect place for a quiet meeting. Neither he nor Haldane would be likely to encounter anyone they knew.
The inn was two miles outside the parish, a small coaching station in the past and now a country inn catering to the nearby villages. The board by the road showed a coach and four above the elegant script spelling out The Coachman. Haldane had somehow managed to command a private room—or perhaps, Hamish suggested wryly, had used this place so often that he had an arrangement with the owners.
Rutledge was shown there by a pleasant woman in her fifties who asked if there was anything he might like while he waited.
“We are still serving breakfast. Or perhaps an early lunch?”
He settled on breakfast, and had just seen the dishes taken away when the door opened again and Haldane stepped in.
“I’ve been told,” he said without a greeting, “that our mutual friend has died.”
“I’m not surprised. He was very ill when I saw him.”
“Yes. I received your postal card.”
Rutledge bit back a smile. Touché, he thought. Two could play at being enigmatic.
Haldane set a case on the table, and sat down across from where Rutledge had been seated.
“What did you find there?”
Rutledge had brought the envelopes he’d taken from the Vermuelen house with him in a smaller valise he’d purchased in Chelmsford as he passed a shop.
“Three envelopes. One concerning the war, which I’ve read because I expected it to concern me. It doesn’t. The second was merely clean sheets of paper, possibly a smoke screen. And a third, which details the movements of the man we appear to be hunting in tandem.”
Haldane nodded, took the first two envelopes, and put them away.
Rutledge had the sudden thought that the empty pages—for all he knew—were covered in secret ink. They did, he noted, still leave a sprinkle of flour on the table as Haldane picked them up. He said nothing. Haldane noted it with a raised eyebrow, but didn’t question it.
“And that was all?”
“From what he told me—and the papers indicated—our friend was ahead of me by perhaps a few weeks. Time enough to have planned the ghost scene. But there was no proof that he was in the village. Someone was, that was apparent, but was it our friend? I’ve only just had confirmation that it was.” He reached in his pocket and brought out the snake ring.
Haldane reached for it and studied it carefully.