“It must have been hard for both women. Deal carefully with them at the inquest. There’s enough evidence to hang him without distressing them further.”
“After that morning? I’ll do just that.” He took the report as Rutledge held it out to him. “I can’t say it was a pleasure working with you. You kept too much to yourself.”
Rutledge remembered Vermuelen, struggling to make sure what he knew reached Haldane. “Some of it didn’t fall into place until very late You’ll find most of the answers in my report.” All but what had touched on Haldane. And France.
“Still.”
And there was the ring. He’d seen to it that it was mentioned in the report. Now he took it from his pocket and also handed it to Hamilton. “That’s evidence. It’s explained in the report. But I found it in the ashes of the hut where we found Mrs. Lowell. He burned it down when he realized he’d lost the ring and couldn’t find it. It must have fallen through the floorboards as he set about hanging her.”
Hamilton took it and looked carefully at it. “Ugly thing.”
“It was a treasure to the young boy who discovered it. He was wearing it when he was killed by Franklin. Early in the war. And for some reason Franklin kept it.”
“It’s as twisted as he is.”
They spoke for several minutes more, and then Rutledge left. He called briefly on Dr. Wister, to thank him for his help.
“Not at all,” Wister said, seeing Rutledge out. “I’ll see you at the inquest then, shall I?”
Rutledge returned to the hotel to collect his valise, and left by the garden entrance where the sun was pleasantly warm in the sheltered space. He stood there for a moment, going over everything, making certain that he had tied up the evidence against Franklin to the best of his ability. He had all the statements he needed, there was his own report, and Hamilton’s. And there was the photograph, the one thing that tied Franklin to that early murder. It could tie him as well to the deaths in Dorset. The war had changed him—but not so much that the man he was now had lost any resemblance to that Miles Franklin. He hadn’t been in the trenches, he’d fought his war in Essex, and had seen France only after it was over.
The one question Rutledge couldn’t answer—very likely no one but Franklin could—was whether or not the man had had anything to do with Major Dinsmore’s suicide. It would have been like Franklin to be certain that the Major knew nothing about the Captain’s evidence by silencing him forever. There was a strong possibility that he had gone to France until he was sure neither he nor the man he’d pretended to be was being hunted.
Hamish said quietly, “It doesna’ signify. He can only hang once.”
That was true. But Rutledge would have liked to know, for Melinda’s sake, if not his own peace of mind. He didn’t like the thought of Dinsmore not finding justice too.
Hamish said, “It’s best that she doesna’ know for certain.”
There was some truth in that.
And there was nothing to keep him in Walmer now.
He had already decided to return to London by way of Kent.
He walked out to his motorcar, and reached for the crank.
It was a pleasant drive back to the Thames, and the crossing was no trouble. He remembered little of it. His thoughts were ahead of him, already in Kent.
He managed to find a telephone, dreading to be put off, knowing as well that it was the right thing to do.
He picked up the receiver and spoke to the operator, then waited while she connected him.
Melinda offered him lunch.
Hiding his relief, he took that as acceptance.
And then back in his motorcar, he realized that she would be free to invite him if Kate had already left—had gone back to London and her parents.
He hadn’t dared ask. Now he wished he’d found the courage.
Hamish said, when at last they turned off the main road into the long, looping drive, “Dona’ dither, ye’ll ken soon enough.”
Shanta was at the door to greet him, and as she took his hat and coat, she said, “They are in the sitting room. You know your way.”
They . . .
He smiled at her. “All is well?”
“See for yourself.”
Rutledge walked down the passage, stopped at the sitting room door to take a deep breath, and pin a pleasant smile on his face. Then he opened the door. It was, he thought, rather like walking into Markham’s den.
Melinda rose from her favorite chair and came forward, lifting her face for his kiss. And then as she moved away, he saw Kate by the window.
“Hallo,” he said, as if he’d met her on Bond Street, shopping for a new hat. “It’s good to see you well.”
She smiled, a little anxiously. “Hallo, Ian.”
He turned to Melinda, to give Kate time, and said, “It didn’t end well in Essex. As you’ve no doubt heard.”
“Yes. Sadly. But one learns soon enough that disappointment is a part of living.” And then, as if she were the hostess of a dinner party, not a luncheon for friends, she said, “I must see to things in the kitchen. My cook is having a tantrum.”
“I don’t know why you put up with the man,” he said, suddenly reluctant to see her go.
“He’s an idiot. But he cooks divinely. He can even manage a decent curry.”
And she was gone.
Kate moved away from the window. “I need to explain—” she began, but he stopped her.
“No, not at all.”
“But I do,” she answered resolutely. “I haven’t been able to mend matters with my father. He’s sometimes stubborn once he makes up his mind. Melinda has asked me to stay on, but I feel I’ve taken advantage of her kindness. Will you take me back to London?”
This was why, he thought, he’d been invited to come.
“If that’s what you want to do, of course, I’ll be happy to drive you. The question is, what will you do? Will you go to an hotel?”
“I was so—so unsettled when I came to you. I needed time—space—to accept what my father had done. I couldn’t really think straight, I just knew I had to find a place to stay. And I’m so grateful to you for thinking of Melinda. She’s been kindness itself this week. But I know—I know she never cared for Jean. Jean told me herself. And I can’t accept her hospitality, now that I’ve got over the first shock.”
He said, “She told me to my face that she believed I was making a grave mistake, marrying your cousin. But I couldn’t see it. I know now that she was right. I’d have made Jean as unhappy as she would have made me. Jean knew that too, when I came home.”
“Yes. I told her it wasn’t very well done to break the engagement so quickly. But she wouldn’t listen. And she had met the diplomat. I think she already knew that she wanted most of all to escape from England and everything about the war.”
But he winced at that memory—it was still vivid. When Jean had finally been allowed to see him in the clinic where he was still fighting the nightmares and the constant presence of Hamish’s voice in his head, she had seen a broken man, and was horrified. He’d stood there and found the strength to ask her to break their engagement for his sake. And the profound relief in her face had hurt him deeply.