The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“He was struck twice,” a voice said behind him, and Rutledge turned to find a thin, bespectacled man standing in the doorway. “Dr Taylor,” he went on. “I was told to wait in the parlour until you got here. The first blow was from behind, to the back of the head, knocking Sir John down but not killing him. A second blow to the face at the bridge of his nose finished him. I don’t know that he saw the first coming. He most certainly saw the second.”

“The weapon?”

Taylor shrugged. “Hard to say until I can examine him more closely. Nothing obvious, at any rate.”

“Has anything been taken?” Rutledge asked, turning to look at the room. It had not been ransacked. But a thief, knowing what he was after, would not have needed to search. There were framed photographs on the walls, an assortment of weapons — from an Australian boomerang to a Zulu cowhide shield — were arrayed between them, and every available surface seemed to hold souvenirs from Sir John’s long career in the army. A Kaiser Wilhelm helmet stood on the little table under the windows, the wooden propeller from a German aircraft was displayed across the tops of the bookshelves, and a half dozen brass shell-casings — most of them examples of trench art — were lined up in a cabinet that held more books.

“You must ask Mrs Gravely that question. The housekeeper. She’s been with him for a good many years. I went through the house, a cursory look after examining the body, to be certain there was no one hiding in another room. I saw nothing to indicate robbery.”

“Any idea when he was killed?”

“We can pinpoint the time fairly well from other evidence. When Mrs Gravely left to go into Mumford, he was alive and well, because she went to the study to ask if there were any letters she could take to the post for him. She was gone by her own account no more than three quarters of an hour, and found him lying as you see him when she returned. At a guess, I’d say he died between two and two-thirty.”

Rutledge nodded. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll speak to her in a moment.”

It was dismissal, and the doctor clearly wished to remain. But Rutledge stood where he was, waiting, and finally the man turned on his heel and left the room. He didn’t precisely slam the door in his wake, but it closed with a decidedly loud snap.

Rutledge went to the window and looked out. It was then he saw the dog lying against the wall, only its feet and tail visible from that angle. Opening the window and bringing in the cold, damp winter air, he leaned out. There was no doubt the animal was dead.

He left the study and went out to kneel by the dog, which did not appear to have been harmed in the attack on Sir John. Death seemed to be due to natural causes and old age, judging from the greying muzzle.

Hamish said, “There’s been no one to bury him.”

An interesting point. He touched the body, but it was cold, already stiffening.

Back inside, he asked the constable where he could find Mrs Gravely, and he was told she was in her room at the top of the house.

He knocked, and a husky voice called “Come in.”

It was a small room, but backed up to the kitchen chimney and was warm enough. Cast-offs from the main part of the house furnished it: a brass bed, an oak bedside table, two comfortable wing chairs on either side of a square of blue carpet, and a maple table under the half-moon window in the eaves. A narrow bookcase held several novels and at least four cookbooks.

The woman seated in the far wing-chair rose as he crossed the threshold. She had been crying, but she seemed to be over the worst of her shock. He noted the teacup and saucer on the table and thought the constable must have brought it to her, not the doctor.

“I’m Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard. The Chief Constable has asked me to take over the inquiry into Sir John’s death. Do you feel up to speaking to me?”

“Yes, sir. But I wasn’t here, you see. If I had been — ”

“If you had been,” he said, cutting across her guilt-ridden anguish, “you might have died with him.”

She stared at him. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

He began by asking her about Sir John.

By her account, Sir John Middleton was a retired military man, having served in the Great War. Rutledge could, of his own knowledge, add that Sir John had served with distinction in an HQ not noted for its brilliance. He at least had been a voice of sanity there and was much admired for it, even though it had not aided his Army career. Had he made enemies, then?

Hamish said, “Aye, it’s possible. He didna’ fear his killer. Or put up a struggle.”

And that was a good point.

“Was he alive when you reached him?”

“Yes, I could see that he was still breathing, ragged though it was. He cried out, just the one word, when I bent to touch him, as if he knew I was there. As if, looking back on it now, he’d held on waiting for me. Because he seemed to let go then, but I could tell he wasn’t dead. I was that torn — leaving him to go for the doctor or staying with him.”

“What did he say? Could you understand him?”