A Lonely Death (14 page)

They went back inside and told the anxious men in the holding cell what they’d discovered.

Tuttle, Walker’s nephew, said, “Be damned to him, then. He’s a coward.”

But Marshall disagreed. “My uncle was out in India for a time. He told me that old tigers got a taste for man, when they couldn’t kill larger prey. And they were more dangerous because of that. Their brethren in the jungle would slip away if they got the scent of a person. But not these.”

“He’s not a tiger,” one of the other men said. “He’s mad, that’s what he is.”

“I don’t think so,” Rutledge answered him. “And I ask you again. Is there anything in your pasts that could have come back to haunt you? Is there anyone who has ever held a grudge? In the war, here in Eastfield, in any place for that matter.”

But they shook their heads.

Hamish said, “It was something loomed large in the killer’s mind. But ye ken, not in theirs.”

“How well do any of you know Daniel Pierce?” Rutledge asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Walker’s gesture intended to stop him from asking these men about the younger Pierce. But this was a murder inquiry, and Tyrell Pierce couldn’t set limits on the directions it took.

“We knew him as a boy. But not as a man,” Tuttle said after a glance at his companions. “He went away to school, you must know that, and even when he was home during holidays, he didn’t have anything to do with us. Then after the war, he was hardly here in Eastfield before he was gone again. It was ‘Mr. Daniel’ then, and touching your cap to him.”

“Did you resent his going away to school? Or was there something between you before then, while he was still Daniel? An old hurt, a misunderstanding, a case where no harm was meant, but he took it hard? Or perhaps you did?” His eyes swept the half circle of men, and he read nothing there that would help him.

“He gave as good as he got,” Marshall answered, his glance sliding toward Walker and then away again. “We avoided him if we could manage it. He was Anthony’s—Mr. Pierce’s—little brother, and no one cared to have him tag along after us. What’s more, he was a tattletale if we weren’t careful, and on purpose he never got it right. Often as not, we were in trouble for something we hadn’t done. I was that glad when he and his brother went off to that school. We’d had enough of both of them.”

Rutledge considered the man, wondering what he had to hide. Because his voice and his shifting gaze betrayed him.

Hamish said, “He didna’ care to be caught.”

And that was very likely it—Marshall had been a ringleader in whatever mischief was afoot, and Daniel Pierce was a thorn in his side.

“The only reason we was allowed to play together was Mr. Pierce was busy at the brewery and couldn’t always keep an eye on Anthony. And who else was there, I ask you, his age? The rector’s son was older, and Dr. Gooding only had girls,” Henderson added.

“Anthony was all right,” one of the other men put in. “He never caused any trouble.”

Which was an odd way to put it.

Still, they were getting nowhere. Burning down an empty mill and frightening lovers in a churchyard hardly led to murder. On the whole, he thought Hamish was right, the killer saw injury where others did not. If, in fact, it was the past that had led to these deaths.

He said, “When you leave here, don’t take what happened last night lightly. Don’t go out alone after dark. Not even on your own property. Take someone you trust with you. Between nine at night and early morning, lock your doors. If someone summons you, ignore it unless there’s another person to go with you. And don’t turn your back on a stranger. It could cost you your life. The four men who were killed had no chance to cry for help. Remember that. They were dead before they quite knew what was happening to them. It’s not a risk worth taking.”

And he let them go home. There was nothing else he could do.

Walker watched the five men gather their belongings and walk out the door of the police station without looking back. Even Tuttle, his nephew had nothing to say as they left.

“Do you think they’ll heed your warning?” Walker asked.

Rutledge shook his head. “We’ll know when the next victim is found.”

R
utledge left the constable at the police station and went to The Fishermen’s Arms to shave and change.

After an early breakfast, he went to the brewery and waited patiently in the office until Tyrell Pierce had finished overseeing the work on a new gauge for their primary vat.

He came in, brisk and busy, the distinctive aroma of roasted hops following him in the door. He ushered Rutledge into his office and said immediately, “Is there any news? Have you found this killer?”

“Not yet.” Rutledge took the chair Pierce indicated and watched the man round his desk and sit down.

Hamish was saying, “Do ye reckon there’s a reason his son canna’ come back to Eastfield? And the father knows what it was he did, and who is to blame for it?”

Pierce was fit enough, Rutledge found himself thinking, but it was difficult to see what Daniel Pierce was afraid of—or was ashamed of. No one else seemed to remember. Unless of course the smoking rags under the police station door was a red herring, and the four men who might have told the police the truth were already dead. It was hard to believe that Pierce had murdered his elder son to protect the younger.

He recalled Tyrell Pierce’s barely concealed fear on his first visit, fear that Daniel was somehow involved. Or at least that the police would suspect him.

Rutledge said, “Several differing possibilities are emerging in this case. I had thought initially that the war was at the bottom of these murders. The identity discs most certainly pointed in that direction. But the more I learn, the more questionable that assumption may be. Which brings me to another line of inquiry. Your son Daniel.”

For an instant Rutledge thought Pierce was going to come across the desk after him. The man’s face suffused with blood and there was such a deep anger in his eyes that Rutledge wondered if he’d taken Hamish’s suggestion too lightly.

And then Pierce got control of himself and said tightly, “Are you like all the rest? At a loss to find the truth, and eager to lay these crimes at the door of a man who hasn’t lived in Eastfield—really lived here—since well before the war?”

“I’m not interested in crucifying your son, Mr. Pierce. The best way to clear his name is to confront reality, not hide from it. Did your sons get on well together?”

“Of course they did,” Pierce snapped.

“Were they both in love with the same girl?”

That caught the older man by surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“I spoke to a sapper in Wales. A man by the name of Jones. He told me that Daniel Pierce had quite a reputation during the war. Tales of his exploits were popular fare amongst sappers. There was even the story that he’d dug his way to hell and supped with the devil.”

Pierce forced a laugh. “Hardly surprising. Daniel was nothing if not brave. And he had a cool head. Always did. He said it made him an ideal sapper.”

And the murderer of four men also had a cool head, Hamish was reminding Rutledge, but he said only, “Your son was a man who preferred to work alone in the tunnels, when he was setting the charges. I imagine he must have had trouble with authority. He wanted to do things his way, including how to mine tunnels properly.”

“All right, yes,” Pierce said, goaded. “He wrote something in a letter. Something about the fact that if he was going to die, it would be his own mistake, not that of anyone else.”

“They also said he appeared to live a charmed life. But that he was unlucky in love. The girl he wanted to marry died. If memory serves, before Anthony took an interest in Mrs. Farrell-Smith, he was engaged to a girl who died young.”

“That’s true. As far as it goes—”

“Is it possible that his brother Daniel was in love with the same woman?”

“I’ve never heard anyone even suggest that he might have been.”

“Was there another girl, then?”

“I was unaware that my son fancied anyone, much less had formed an attachment. He’d always said that he never wanted to settle down to an ordinary life. As a boy he was forever reading about explorers and lamenting that there was nothing left to discover.”

“Perhaps his brother was already set to inherit the only life Daniel wanted to live.”

“Nonsense!”

“Men will also say such things when they’ve been disappointed in love.”

“You never knew my son,” Pierce told Rutledge, his voice harsh.

“On the other hand, I believe that Mrs. Farrell-Smith’s late husband did in fact know Daniel. At school, perhaps?”

That surprised Pierce. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“When I called on her, Mrs. Farrell-Smith believed at first that I’d come to her because we knew where your son was.”

“What are you driving at, man?”

“It makes me wonder how attached she was to Anthony Pierce. Or if she was fond of him because he was your heir.”

That left the older man speechless.

“This is a small town,” Rutledge continued, “hardly more than a village that has outgrown itself. It’s difficult to keep secrets when people have known each other most of their lives. Men here went to the same school as children, they served in France—what else connects them? I don’t know. Yet. You can’t ignore the fact that when this killer has finished his work here, he could begin to search for Daniel next. Does your son know the danger in which he stands? Or will he be caught off guard like the first victims? You may feel that obstructing the police protects your son, but it could have just the opposite effect. Because he could possess the missing piece of information that could save other lives, including his own.”

Tyrell Pierce’s face was as pale as the shirt he was wearing.

“I’ve lost one child to this killer. I don’t want to lose another. The truth is, I don’t know why Daniel won’t return to Eastfield. Or where he is. I write to him in care of a tobacconist shop in St. Ives, Cornwall. I have reason to believe he doesn’t live there, that his mail is forwarded to him by the friend or acquaintance who owns the shop. Or whoever comes to collect it. It’s a fragile link, but it’s all I have, and I will preserve it at any cost. I want you to understand that. If you do anything to interrupt this line of communication—send policemen to question that shop owner or have my son’s mail watched, or interfere in any way—I will see to it that your career at Scotland Yard is over. I have the power to break you, and I will break you.”

Rutledge believed every word of that warning.

“You can try,” he said. “But if I were you, I’d do everything in my power to keep my son safe.” He stood up, and for a moment regarded the frightened man on the other side of the desk. “Including asking the police to help me. As it is, if Daniel is killed, it will be no one’s fault but your own.”

He turned and walked out the door, not waiting for a reply. Behind him he heard Pierce clear his throat, as if on the point of calling him back, but in the end, he did not.

Rutledge went from the brewery to the school begun by an émigré Frenchman and now run by Mrs. Farrell-Smith.

She was just finishing a report when the girl on duty that morning led Rutledge to her office. She frowned when she saw who was standing in the doorway, but signed her name to the report, put it in a folder, and set it to one side before acknowledging her visitor with a nod.

Rutledge suppressed a smile. She would, he thought, have been quite happy to live in the era when a policeman was relegated to the servants’ entrance and was shown to the family’s quarters by a housemaid stiff with disapproval.

He stood there in silence, and finally, she was irritated enough to offer him a chair and ask him what brought him to the school this morning.

“Daniel Pierce,” he said, and waited.

It took her a moment to compute this, clearly having expected him to begin with the murders.

“Daniel Pierce?” she repeated, trying to recover control of the conversation. “And what have I to do with Anthony’s brother?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me.”

A slow flush crept up her fair skin. “Nothing,” she snapped. “I have nothing to do with him.”

“I’d wondered why you had been willing to take this position with the Misses Tate Latin School. I thought perhaps you were in straitened circumstances after your husband’s death. Or that you felt a strong family tie to your aunts. Now I’m coming around to the possibility that you chose to accept this position because Daniel Pierce lived in Eastfield, and you expected him to return to the village when the war was over. Which he did. But he hardly spent a fortnight here. Was it because of you?”

“I shall have you recalled for incompetence and rudeness—”

“Rudeness to my betters? I’m sure you’ll try. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you with a problem that has been on my mind since Theo Hartle’s murder. He recognized a passerby while he was in Hastings, the day of his death. He couldn’t place the face he’d seen, but it disturbed him enough that he could well have gone in search of that person when he should have been returning to Eastfield. And that could very easily have cost him his life. Who did he see? Was it Daniel Pierce?”

He stood, and walked to the door. “I don’t know why you feel I’m your enemy, Mrs. Farrell-Smith. Why you should feel more comfortable with Inspector Norman conducting this inquiry. I have no wish to probe into your personal life or your secrets. But I have four dead men to whom I owe a duty. And six living men I’m here to protect. If you can put your antipathy aside long enough to help me do what I came to do, we might save Daniel Pierce’s life. It could well be that his name is on this murderer’s list. Like his brother, he served in the war, and like his brother, he went to school here as a boy. If someone believed he had a good reason to kill Anthony Pierce, then it’s likely that he also has a good reason to kill Daniel Pierce. Please consider that.”