“Why?”
“Because I refused to help him hide that bloody bicycle. You heard me quarrelling with him. It was me on the road that night. And he told me that if I said anything, he would swear to the police that he had seen me with the Lowell woman. That I had killed her. But I hadn’t. I liked her. I never said two words to her, but I’d watch her pedal past the yard.”
“Why didn’t you speak to Hamilton? He’d have sorted it out.”
“Because of that damned, infernal valise. He left it here early in 1919. Several men did, and came back for them later. All except him. He told me the police would find it, and there was proof of murder in it. They’d think it was mine. And I’d hang.”
Rutledge said, “There was indeed proof of murder in the valise.” He swung it to the top of one of the tables and snapped the locks. Lifting the top, he turned it so that Newbold, bracing himself, could see the contents.
Newbold leaned forward, stared, and then turned back to Rutledge. “That’s just old uniforms! The bastard lied to me!” Face flushed now, his hands clenched at his side, he said, “I was afraid to open it. It was locked, and I was afraid he might see I’d tampered with it. And all the time it was nothing but unforms he didn’t need anymore!” He began to swear, but Rutledge cut him short.
“He wasn’t lying. There was proof of murder here.”
He lifted out the topmost uniform tunic. Spreading it out, he turned the breast pocket inside out. And there, neatly sewn by a caring mother, were the initial and name G DUNN.
“This isn’t Reed’s valise. It belongs to a dead man who was accused of deserting.”
Newbold leaned closer again. “Dunn? I remember him. There was a search, before he was declared a deserter. I heard they might have found his body. Some of the men who come in here work in Walmer.” He looked at Rutledge again. “Are you saying that Reed killed him? But in God’s name, why?”
Rutledge ran his hand down the side of the valise and lifted out part of the linkage from beneath a motorcar.
“Reed took this out of Captain Nelson’s motorcar and substituted a faulty bit. Where it broke finally. He happened to be driving fast, lost control, and was killed. Gerald Dunn was curious, and a fine mechanic, found out what Reed had done. And so he had to die as well. I’m sending it to the motorcar’s manufacturer, to see just where it came from. The steering, I should think.”
Sitting down heavily at one of the other chairs at that table, Newbold said, “And I’d take the blame if the valise had been found here. They’d think I’d killed them. He was right. My good God . . .”
Without a word about the one other object he had found in the valise, Rutledge folded the tunic again, put the linkage in next to it, then closed the top and snapped the locks in place. “You’ll need to make a statement for the police. About who left the case here, and when. And who retrieved it recently. Don’t delay. You could be charged as an accomplice.”
“No—no, I’ll come down. If only to be sure the bastard hangs for what he’s done.”
Rutledge studied his face for a moment. “What if I’d found the valise the first time I came here? And asked you to open it, and explain what it contained. Would you have told me about Reed?”
“Of course I would have done. What do you take me for?”
But Rutledge was nearly certain he would have said nothing about Reed. He’d been too afraid of the man. He’d lied readily enough about the quarrel by the road.
“It might have saved Patricia Lowell’s life.”
He turned, lifted the valise once more and walked out the door of the pub, leaving Newbold sitting there, at the table.
When he passed the Abbey a few minutes later, the gates were open, and a van was in the drive by the main door, which was closed. He stopped. But they had been sent by Lady Benton to repair the damage to the terrace doors. He made certain that some of the staff were there to watch the workmen’s progress, then he left.
It was nearly eight o’clock when Miles Franklin was transferred to a cell in the police station.
They had almost reached it, watched by a silent crowd of people who were standing outside, when a woman came out of the throng, and before anyone could stop her, she ran to the stretcher and began to pummel the man lying there, shouting at him.
Rutledge came to her and pulled her off Franklin. She broke into tears, then.
“I want to see him hang,” Mrs. Dunn begged Rutledge. “Promise me I can come and watch him hang.”
He led her away. “I’ll do my best,” he said.
He went with her back to her door, where her son Eddie, his own eyes red-rimmed from crying, took her in.
“Can you manage?” Rutledge asked. Eddie was only nine.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” And then as his mother walked down the passage toward the kitchen, the boy leaned forward. In a low voice, he added, “I just wish you had killed him, sir. It would have been better.”
With that he closed the door.
19
Rutledge went back to the hotel, and sat down at his desk, preparing his report. The Chief Constable had asked for a copy as well. He was finding it difficult to concentrate, when there was a tap at the door.
He called, “Come,” and then quickly rose as the door opened, and Lady Benton stood there. “I was told you were still here. Would you mind awfully driving me back to the Abbey? Margaret urged me to stay the night, but I need to be sure they’ve repaired the terrace doors properly.” She looked around with interest. “It’s a rather nice room, isn’t it?”
He set the pages he was working on in the desk drawer, then collected his coat and hat. “Yes, it’s been comfortable.”
As they went down to his motorcar through the back garden, the wafting scent of roast ham reached them.
“You have nothing for a meal,” he reminded her, and stepped into the kitchen to ask for a box.
It was quickly done, and he went with her out to the motorcar.
“You haven’t told me about what happened in my garden,” she said as they drove out of Walmer.
“According to what I was told, Franklin appeared to be drunk, and Johnson was trying to humor him before he did something foolish. And so he went along with the charade, sure no one was going to see them anyway. He got the wind up when Franklin began to try the door, testing to see if it was locked, and he left rather hastily while you were pushing something across your door.”
“Dear God. I was so sure—so very sure it was Roger.”
“Franklin knew him. He could mimic the Captain’s stride. I talked to Johnson again today. Franklin had a torch inside his coat, pointed toward his face, lighting it, but casting shadows as well. You saw what you were expected to see. You most certainly wouldn’t have expected the figure in the garden to be Reed. He counted on you believing it was the Captain. By the way, I discovered your iron key to the house, the one you gave to the Captain. It was left with other items in a valise belonging to Reed. It will be returned to you after the inquest and trial.”
“When I went to the Home Farm, I never saw the man listed as Blackburn in the ledgers. I don’t think I would have recognized him if I had—but he kept his distance, all the same.” She sighed. “We were all taken in.” After a moment she added softly, as if to herself, “I was gullible, wasn’t I? Was Franklin aware, do you think, that I was at the window, watching?”