The Kidnapping

An Ian Rutledge Original Short Story with Bonus Content

Charles Todd

Contents

Front Ad

The Kidnapping

About the Author

Also by Charles Todd

Credits

A Lonely Death

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

The Red Door

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

A Pale Horse

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Copyright

About the Publisher

The Kidnapping

London 1920

It was late, the rain coming down hard, when the man hurried through the main door of Scotland Yard and came to an abrupt halt as he saw the sergeant at the desk.

“I must speak to an inspector at once,” he said, his voice that of a gentleman though his clothes were torn and disheveled, his hat wet and filthy.

“If you’ll give me your name, sir,” the sergeant said calmly, reaching for a sheet of paper, “and the particulars.”

“I tell you, I need an inspector. Look at me, man! Do I look as if I have all night to answer your questions?”

“All the same, sir—”

“Damn it,” the man said, and turned toward the door to one side of the desk.

“Here!” the sergeant exclaimed, rising. “You can’t go in there until you’ve told me your business.”

But the man was too quick for him and had reached the door just as it opened.

The tall, dark-haired man standing there looked from the agitated sergeant to the flushed and angry stranger.

“Inspector Rutledge, sir? This man refuses to give his name and his reasons for coming to the Yard.

“Inspector?” the intruder exclaimed, stepping back. “Thank God. I’ve just been robbed and beaten, and my daughter has been taken away by force. You must help me find her. Cecily is only twelve, she’ll be terrified by now. I can’t bear to think what she’s suffering.”

“Where was this?” Rutledge asked.

“On Christopher Street. Number 10. We’d just returned home from dinner with friends—this was a little after ten o’clock—and as we stepped out of the cab, two men accosted us. Before I quite knew what was happening, they had knocked me to the ground, kicking me repeatedly while a third man, our erstwhile cabbie, had caught my daughter by the arms and forced her back into the waiting cab. I was only half conscious when the two attacking me went through my pockets but took nothing, not my watch, not even my purse. I couldn’t stop them, couldn’t even cry out. And then they leapt into the cab and it set off at a fast pace, disappearing around the next corner before I managed to get to my feet and attempted to go after them.”

Rutledge regarded him. “Your face isn’t damaged.”

“No, they kicked me, I tell you. My ribs, my back, my shoulders.”

“Have you seen a doctor? Mr.—”

“Dunstan. Charles Dunstan. In God’s name, how can I think about going to a doctor when Cecily is in the hands of those brutes? She’s in danger, I tell you, and you must help me find her. What do they want with her? I’m not a wealthy man, I can’t pay a great ransom for her. That’s what frightens me. She’s a pretty child.” He fumbled for his wallet and brought out a photograph of a young girl with long fair hair and a sweet smile.

Rutledge studied it and returned the photograph. “Why didn’t you find a constable, set the police after them straightaway, rather than take the time coming here?”

“There was no constable in sight. Should I have lost time finding him? This is a Yard matter, surely, not the London police. I beg of you, do something.”

“Did you see the faces of these three men? Or of the cabbie?”

“No. He was just the cabbie, I paid him no heed until he leapt down to take my daughter. By that time, the other two had come out of the shadows before I could even turn and defend myself.”

“Did they speak?”

“No. The attack seemed all the worse for being carried out in complete silence.”

“Why had you taken a cab in the first place?”

“We’d had dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Lowery.”

“Old friends?”

“I’ve known them a year or two. He’s a member of my club.”

He put a hand to his ribs as he coughed, and Rutledge said, “Here, sit down.” Over Dunstan’s shoulder, Rutledge said to the Sergeant, “Send men to Number 10 Christopher Street, and three more to find this cabbie—or if possible, what became of the cab after the crime.”

The sergeant said, “There’s only the night staff on duty.”

“Then summon more men. I’ll take Mr. Dunstan to my office.”

He led the way up the stairs and along the passage to an office overlooking the street.

Mr. Dunstan, inspecting it, saying, “You are an inspector, are you not?”

Rutledge smiled. “Not precisely the accommodations of a banker, but I am most assuredly an inspector.”

“Perhaps I should speak to someone of greater seniority.”

“You’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone of greater seniority at this hour of a Saturday night. For my sins, I’m on duty until the morning.”

Dunstan sat down, wincing as he reached to set his hat on the table against the wall. “Very well, tell me what we are to do about recovering my daughter.”

“First we must see what can be discovered at the scene, and where the cabbie may have got to. I’ll be leaving shortly for Christopher Street myself. But first I must ask if you have any enemies. And where, if you are here alone, is the child’s mother?”

“She’s dead. These past three years. As for enemies—I can’t think of any who would have taken out their animosity on my child.”

“Then you do have enemies?” Rutledge said.

“I am a King’s Counsel, Inspector. I have tried many men who have threatened to make me regret my part in sending them to prison.”

“And personal enemies, rather than professional?”

“My late wife’s brother. His name is Roland Paley. But he’s in western Canada. Vancouver. Has been for some twenty years. We quarreled when I married Grace. That was fifteen years ago. The family’s choice was a wealthy man in the City, much older than Grace. I was a struggling barrister then, not likely to provide for her as he could. Ours was a love match, you see. Her father finally came round, but her mother and her brother felt that she was merely infatuated with me, and in time would come to regret the match.”

“And did she?”

“Never.”

Rutledge rose. “I’ll ask you to remain here, if you will. I have work to do, but it’s important to know where to find you.”

“I can’t sit here!”

“You have come to the police, Mr. Dunstan. Let them do their work.”

“I’ll run mad with worry! At the very least, let me come with you.”

And so they found themselves out in the rain, taking Rutledge’s motorcar to Christopher Street.

There were two constables and a sergeant already there, combing the scene with their torches, their capes slick with rain.

Rutledge said, pulling his hat lower to shield his eyes, “Anything?”

Sergeant Dickens shook his head. “Not even a drop of blood.”

“And the neighbors?”

“Constable Hudson is speaking to them now, sir. So far, it appears they were all cozy in front of the fire with the drapes drawn. Not one heard anything, nor saw anything.”

Rutledge turned to Dunstan. “Did your daughter cry out?”

“The man holding her must have had a hand over her mouth. I didn’t hear her cry. He turned her away from the beating I was taking, then shoved her in the cab.”

“And she didn’t struggle?”

“I was frantically defending myself. I only know that I didn’t hear her scream.”

Which was, Rutledge thought, decidedly odd. If a girl of twelve was being torn from her father’s side by strangers on a dark, rainy night, she would not have gone quietly with her captors.

A constable came walking briskly toward them. Sergeant Dickens looked up and said, “What is it?”

“The Yard sent me to tell you, sir, that the cab has been found. It was left in a street in Chelsea.”

“And what if anything was in it?” the sergeant demanded.

“No one, sir. And nothing inside that would indicate why it was being abandoned as it was. The horse was standing there waiting. No drops or smears of blood. But there was one interesting thing, sir.” He held out his hand. In his palm lay a coin, dark and hardly visible.

Rutledge picked it up. “A penny. A Canadian penny.”

“Yes, sir. There’s no way to know who dropped it, or when. But it was there, and I made note of it.”

“Thank you, Constable. Take two men and see if you can locate the missing cabbie. Was he one of the kidnappers—or is he lying injured or dead somewhere? Look in the hospitals as well. He may have been found and taken there before we knew of the kidnapping.”

The constable touched his helmet and was gone, trotting back the way he’d come, his boots loud in the quiet night on such a quiet street.

“A Canadian penny,” Dunstan said, holding out his hand for it. Rutledge gave it to him, and he added, “There’s no way to tell the date. It’s rather worn.” He turned it this way and that in the torchlight.

“Did you keep in touch with your brother-in-law?” Rutledge asked. “Would he have reason to know where you lived?”

“We were living in Number 10 at the time of my wife’s death. I cabled him, but he never replied. ”

“Why would he wish to harm your daughter?”

“I can’t think why he would,” Dunstan said. “Yes, he could very likely still harbor a grudge against me. But Cecily? No. He’s never even met her.”

“Did your attackers have good reason to believe they might have killed you, after the beating here, outside your door?” Rutledge looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of a scuffle, and only Dunstan’s word that the kidnapping had even occurred. Except for the very real fear in the man’s eyes.

Dunstan looked up at Rutledge’s face, shadowed by the brim of his hat. “Do you know, they could well have. I lay there, having troubles breathing from the blows. I’d fought back at first, but I couldn’t go on. It was all I could do to drag myself to my feet as they leapt into the cab and drove off.”

“We’ll cable the Vancouver police. If your brother-in-law is still there, we’ll have to strike him from our list of suspects.” He summoned one of his men and gave the instructions.

“He could have sent others to do his work for him. But why? I can’t think of a reason. I’ve told you, I’m not a wealthy man. Comfortable, yes. But hardly able to pay a ransom that would make such an enterprise worth anyone’s while.”

“It may not be a matter of ransom,” Rutledge pointed out.

“Yes, well, what other use could he possibly have for taking his sister’s child?”

Their search of Christopher Street had yielded no new information. Rutledge said to Dunstan, “I’d like to have a look in your house.”

“But I was attacked out here.”

“Nevertheless.”

“It’s a waste of time, but yes, come inside.”

He went up the steps of Number 10, and unlocked the door. “I’m grateful they left my keys,” he said as the door swung open.

Rutledge found himself in a short entry and through the next door saw that he was facing a staircase with more doors to either side of it.

When he opened the right hand door, Dunstan said, “The drawing room—”

He stopped, appalled at the sight before them.

The room had been ransacked. And not gently.

“My God,” he murmured, standing there in the doorway.

“Don’t touch anything,” Rutledge warned. “Show me the other rooms.”

They found that the study had also been ransacked as well as the master bedroom. But the rest of the house appeared not to have been touched save for a broken window in the kitchen.

“What the hell were they after?” Dunstan demanded. “I don’t keep any papers here. Or much in the way of valuables. My late wife’s jewelry, which will go to Cecily when she’s older. My will. My accounts.”

“But they must have believed something was here to find. Do you have any live-in staff? If you do, then we must get to them at once.”

“No, not since Cecily outgrew her governess. She goes to a day school now. The cook, the housekeeper, and the maids leave at seven every evening.”

“When did you go out to dine tonight?” Rutledge asked, surveying the damage done to a lovely maple chest at the foot of the bed.

“A little after seven. Mr. and Mrs. Lowery had been wanting to meet Cecily. Their nephew is coming to stay while his parents travel, and they’re anxious to find a good school.”

“Did your daughter enjoy her evening?”

“Oh, yes, very much so. She’s—she’s looking forward to meeting Stephen.”

“She wasn’t uncomfortable amongst the adults?”

“Not at all. They made much of her.”

“It’s likely that someone came here to search the house, knowing you were not at home. And not finding what they were after, arranged to meet you when you left the Lowery house. Who knew you were dining out? After dinner, did you have trouble summoning a cab?”

“I expect Cecily told any number of her friends. And the staff knew we weren’t dining in. My clerks because I was leaving chambers early. As for finding a cab when the evening was over, one was coming up Jermaine Street at that moment. I got the impression he’d just set down a passenger. I thought myself lucky.” Dunstan grimaced.

Rutledge turned and went to the door. “My motorcar is just outside. I think we’d better have a look at the situation at the Lowery house.”

Dunstan followed him, pausing only to lock the door, saying as he did so, “I don’t remember anyone on the street when the cabbie stopped here.”

Rutledge pointed to the servants’ stairs half hidden by shrubbery along the railing. “As good a hiding place as any.”

They found Jermaine Street quiet when they arrived. Like Christopher Street, it was upper middle class, the houses large and comfortable, the neighborhood respectable. Hardly the scene of any crime. Rutledge left his motorcar several doors away from Number 16, and they went the rest of the way on foot. Rutledge carried his torch in his hand. There were lights on in the house, mostly on the floors above, as the family prepared for bed. Rutledge continued past Number 16 to the corner, searching the stair wells leading to the servants’ entrance and even the small square with its gated garden and ornamental trees. On the far side of the square, at Number 23, he discovered the cabbie lying in a pool of blood at the foot of the servant stairs.

Rutledge felt for a pulse. “He’s alive. A blow on the head, as far as I can tell,” he said, shining his torch on the dark matting in the man’s graying hair. “Knock on the door. We’ll need an ambulance.”

Dunstan did as he was told, rousing the household and asking for the use of their telephone. When the cabbie had been taken away and the anxious owner of Number 23 had been reassured that he wouldn’t be murdered in his bed that night, Rutledge also put in a telephone call to the Yard, asking for men to examine the street. Meanwhile the local constable had come past on his rounds and could say with certainty that there was no body in the servants’ entrance when he looked at half past nine.

“The kidnappers must have taken a cab to this address, overcome the driver, and prepared to meet you when you came out of the Lowery house, assuming that you wouldn’t be too late in leaving given your daughter was with you.”

“I’m relieved that they didn’t kill the poor man. Or me. At least that gives me hope I shall find my daughter alive.”

“The question is,” Rutledge said, “how did they know you weren’t at home in Christopher Street when they came to search the house? And how did they know to look for you at Jermaine Street when they didn’t find whatever it is they wanted? We must interview your servants.” He beckoned to a young constable. “Give him the names and directions for your staff, if you please.”

“I can’t believe they would betray me in this fashion. They’ve been with me these twelve years!”

“They can be bribed. Or cajoled into talking to a caller at the door. Or they can be a party to what happened.”

Dunstan gave the names to the constable, and Rutledge sent him off to interview the women.

The rain was heavy again, the gutters running with rainwater, and in spite of his umbrella, his shoulders were nearly wet through as he looked across the square at the now-dark Lowery residence.

“What could they want?” Dunstan asked, pacing restlessly. “I have tried to think of anything, anything at all, that would be worth taking Cecily in this way.”

“Revenge. Money. Fear. There can be a long list of reasons. Did your wife live in Canada?”

“For a time, yes. Her father was sent out there by his firm. He was a mining engineer. He told me once that if he’d been clever, he might have discovered for himself the gold that later started the famous Gold Rush in the Yukon. Instead, he was looking for other minerals.”

“Did he own property in Canada?”

“A shooting camp in the woods. He sometimes went there with friends. My wife inherited it, but neither of us has ever been there. Her brother often uses it without asking, but I never pursued the matter. It was the principle that irritated me, that he felt he should have inherited it and behaved as if it were indeed his.”

“Why your wife, if it was a shooting camp?” Rutledge asked as they crossed the square.

“I expect it was because her father never really liked Elston. He was a troublesome child and grew into a troublesome man.”

They had reached the Lowery house. Rutledge knocked, but it was several minutes before the door opened. A thin, balding man stood there in his dressing gown. His brows rose in surprise.

“I say, Dunstan.” His glance moved on to Rutledge.

“Andrew, Cecily has been kidnapped,” Dunstan said before Rutledge could speak. “We’re trying to find her.”

“May we come in?” Rutledge asked.

Lowery stepped to one side. “Yes, of course. Are you serious, Dunstan? Cecily? What in God’s name has happened?” He led them into the drawing room and lit the lamp. “I don’t understand.”

“How many people knew you’d invited Mr. Dunstan and his daughter to dinner?”

“How many people? Good God, I have no idea. I never made a secret of it.” He looked up as his wife came into room. “My dear, it’s distressing news—something has happened to Cecily.”

“But she was just here,” she exclaimed. “I don’t understand.” She was a fair woman, attractive and slim.

Dunstan told her what had happened. “And we’ve just found the cabbie, across the square. He’s on his way to hospital. The police haven’t been able to question him.”

Mrs. Lowery’s gaze moved to Rutledge’s face. “But the Yard is doing everything that’s possible, surely!”

“Can you give me a list of the other guests this evening?” he asked. “And tell me whether they left before or after Dunstan and his daughter?”

“But of course.” She went to the small desk by the door and sat down to write.

Rutledge said, “The Dunstan house was ransacked. Whoever took Cecily Dunstan didn’t find what he was looking for there, nor on Mr. Dunstan’s person. That could well explain why his daughter was taken.”

“Holding her—but that’s diabolic!” Mrs. Lowery said. “Is it money?”

“There have been no demands for ransom,” Dunstan said, the beginnings of panic in his voice.

“Early days,” Rutledge pointed out. “They’ll wait until you are ready to do anything to retrieve your daughter.”

“They needn’t wait. I’ve already reached that point,” Dunstan answered.

Mrs. Lowery finished the list and passed it to Rutledge.

There were two other couples and a single woman, Dunstan making up the numbers. Mr. and Mrs. Carson, Mr. and Mrs. Frey, and Miss Abernathy. Two men and three women. There had been three men in the attack on the Dunstans. If Carson and Frey were involved, then Lowery himself would have had to be a party to the kidnapping of Cecily Dunstan. Was Dunstan mistaken or had he lied about his attackers? Or were those three men unconnected with the dinner party?

“The Carsons are old friends,” Mrs. Lowery was adding. “We met the Freys six months ago. They’d been in Kenya for some years and have just returned to England. Miss Abernathy is traveling with them, at the request of her parents.”

“Thank you.” Rutledge studied the short list. “Why were they in Kenya?” he asked.

“Something was said about growing coffee,” Lowery replied. “Miss Abernathy told us her father is the doctor in Nairobi.”

Mrs. Lowery smiled. “She’s quite charming, kept all of us laughing with tales of her life out there. Her story about trying to stalk and shoot a springbok in Ngorongoro Crater had us all laughing.”

“Indeed?”

“I can’t believe that our guests—it’s not likely that they’re involved with this,” Lowery said. “To what end?”

“It’s what they may have seen as they left your house that interests me.”

“Yes, of course.”

Rutledge asked for their direction and was sent to a hotel near Kensington Palace.

Dunstan said, “I’m sorry to pull them out of bed,” as he and Rutledge took the narrow elevator to the third floor. “But for Cecily’s sake, we have no choice.”

Miss Abernathy was in Number 307 and Rutledge knocked at her door first.

A sleepy voice called, “Who is it?”

“The police, Miss Abernathy. There’s been a thief in the hotel. I need to make certain that you’re all right.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Could you come to the door and verify you are not being held against your will?”

Dunstan said, “What the hell—” but Rutledge silenced him with a raised hand.

“I’m in bed,” the voice behind the door said plaintively. “Must I?”

“I’m afraid so,” Rutledge answered.

There was a long silence, and then Miss Abernathy came to the door, her long red hair spilling down the back of her dressing gown.

“As you can see, I’m perfectly fine,” she told him. “Now am I allowed to return to my—” At that moment she recognized Dunstan, over her shoulder.

With an angry cry, she shouted, “Tom!” and made to slam the door in Rutledge’s face. But she hadn’t reckoned with his quick reflexes.

Rutledge’s shoe was in the crack, and his shoulder hit the door in the same instant, propelling her back into the room where she stumbled and fell against the bed. She was still calling for Tom, and Rutledge wheeled as Dunstan shouted, meeting the man as he charged into the room.

“Police,” Rutledge warned him, but he didn’t stop. They grappled, Tom driven by fury. Rutledge was slowly getting the better of him when the woman from the bed threw herself on his back, and another woman ran into the room, her hands out like claws, attacking Dunstan. He swore as her nails raked his face, then beat her fists against his chest.

There was a faint sound from the wardrobe behind him. Dunstan, hearing it, caught the woman by the shoulders, spinning her around with some force, and whipped the dangling sash of her dressing gown around her wrists before shoving her into a chair. Then he went at the door like a madman, flinging it open and saying something Rutledge couldn’t catch.

Rutledge was able to put his shoulder into the next blow, and the man fell to the floor, dazed. He turned on Miss Abernathy and, without ceremony, snapped his handcuffs over her wrists and pushed her back down on the bed. He wheeled to where Dunstan was standing in front of the wardrobe, trying to lift his daughter out of the cramped space but his ribs wouldn’t allow him to shift her. She had been bound with cloths, and there was barely room for her to crouch. Rutledge stepped forward, lifted her out of the wardrobe and carried her to the only other chair in the room. Dunstan began to tear at the knots but Rutledge brought out a pocket knife and quickly cut them.

The odor of ether was on her clothing, and in a black rage, her father turned on the man Miss Abernathy had called Tom. “You dined with us, you bastard, and when we left, you attacked us and used ether on my child.”

Frey scrambled away from Dunstan’s fury, putting the bed between them, but that didn’t stop the outraged father. He launched himself across the bed, shoving Miss Abernathy out of his way, and caught the man by the throat. It was all Rutledge could do to pull him off Frey, as Dunstan’s hands tightened their grip.

“Go downstairs,” he told the struggling, angry father. “Find a policeman and bring him here, then take my motorcar and drive to the Yard. We need help and we need it straightaway.”

“I’m not leaving my daughter,” Dunstan said stubbornly.

“She’s just regaining consciousness. Do as I say and bring a doctor back with you. She should be seen.”

Dunstan turned to look at his daughter, her eyes closed, her mouth slack, and her face very pale.

“Dear God,” he said, and was out the door, leaving it wide. Rutledge could hear his footsteps racing down the carpeted corridor.

Rutledge turned to the three people eyeing him speculatively. “If you try something,” he said tightly, “it will give me great pleasure to use you as Dunstan would have done. In the name,” he added, “of quelling an attempted escape.”

Frey said, “We outnumber you three to one. Even with their hands tied.” He nodded toward his two companions.

Rutledge smiled coldly. And waited. He watched the two women and one man weigh their chances against the tall, broad-shouldered young policeman, and then subside. Cowards, he found himself thinking, who would leap out at a man and kidnap his daughter but who were unwilling to try their luck with someone who was their match.

After a moment Miss Abernathy said, “We covered our tracks well. How did you know?”

He crossed to the door and swung it closed. “The fact that there were three assailants, and you were three to dine. That you left shortly before the Dunstans, with time to set up your trap. Three people dressed as men, to confuse the police. It was a well-prepared plan, and working it through the unsuspecting Lowerys was clever. But I was certain when I told Miss Abernathy here that a thief was on the loose in the hotel and she showed no concern. A woman alone in a strange city would have been frightened enough to welcome the assurance of a policeman making certain she was safe. But she couldn’t afford to have the police come into her room.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Miss Abernathy exclaimed. “I was glad you’d come to my door.”

But she hadn’t been.

That was all he could pry out of them. He went to sit beside Cecily, assuring her that she was safe as she sat up and stared with frightened eyes at her abductors. Finally Dunstan arrived with two men from the Yard and a doctor. As the constables took charge of the surly kidnappers, the doctor was bending over Cecily, examining her while reassuring her that all was well.

A few minutes later, the doctor crossed the room to speak Rutledge. “She’ll be all right,” he said, “but ether is measured by drops according to weight, not just poured onto a handkerchief. They took a serious risk.”

Dunstan said wearily, still kneeling by his daughter, “Whatever those people wanted, it must be valuable indeed.”

“We’ll find out in due course,” Rutledge replied. “First we need to establish just who they really are, and where they came from. That could also tell us what they were after. They’ll be in prison, meanwhile. You and your daughter will have nothing more to fear from them.”

He could tell that Dunstan was dubious. The night’s events had shaken him badly.

It wasn’t until a cable to Canada was answered that they had what they needed.

Roland Paley dead of heart attack ten months ago. Widow remarried to one Thomas Cochran Frey. Whereabouts unknown.

Rutledge brought the news to Dunstan, who said, “But that doesn’t explain anything, does it? Unless they took Roland seriously, that he’d been cheated over that blasted hunting lodge.”

“I sent a second cable to the Canadian Mounted,” he said. “It seems the hunting lodge that your father-in-law left to your wife is quite valuable now. The railroad wants to build a hotel on the property. They’re willing to pay huge sums for the lodge and the land. If you could be persuaded to make the deed over in Mrs. Frey’s name, she and her husband stood to make a fortune. The police are now looking at the post mortem results for your brother-in-law, to see if he died of natural causes.”

“But I would have given them the deed, I knew nothing about Canadian railways,” Dunstan said as he and Rutledge sat down in his drawing room. Set to rights again, it was quite handsome. “They didn’t need to kidnap my daughter!”

“Greedy people,” Rutledge answered, “as a rule judge others by themselves. They wouldn’t have handed over a valuable property without a fight. Your daughter was insurance.”

“I don’t want anything to do with that property now,” Dunstan said. “Let them have it if they’ll stay away from me and my daughter. It has caused nothing but trouble since my father-in-law’s death.”

“One isn’t allowed to make a profit from a crime. Sell it to the Canadian Pacific Railway yourself and invest the money for your daughter. It will ensure her future if anything should happen to you. And I’m sure that’s what your wife would have wished.”

“Yes, I’ll think about it.”

Rutledge left him then, and went back at the Yard.

Sergeant Gibson said as Rutledge came up the stairs, “It could have ended far worse. Kidnappings often do. You were lucky.”

Rutledge thanked him and walked on to his office.

Chief Superintendent Bowles came in five minutes later. “You took a terrible risk. You should have sent for a more seasoned officer.”

Rutledge smiled. There was no possible way of satisfying his superior. But he said only, “Sergeant Gibson feels it was a matter of luck.”

“Yes, well, don’t count on luck the next time. Send for assistance.” He left, and Rutledge sat down behind his desk.

He hadn’t told Dunstan the whole truth. Or Bowles. For it had been good police work that had brought the case to a satisfactory conclusion.

What had triggered his suspicion of Miss Abernathy—who had turned out to be Mrs. Frey’s sister, one Josephine Tanner—was a remark made by Mrs. Lowery, that Miss Abernathy had boasted of shooting springbok in Ngorongoro Crater while growing up in Kenya before the war. But the crater was actually in what was then German Tanganyika, not Kenya. And Springbok was native to South Africa, not East Africa. Miss Tanner had enjoyed being the charming Miss Abernathy, amusing the dinner guests, but she’d got her facts wrong.

Pride had been her downfall.

And Rutledge had a geography tutor at Oxford to thank for teaching him about Africa. His name was Pieter Roos and he would have enjoyed learning that his pupil had solved a crime with that knowledge. But he had died in Egypt during the war, and Rutledge hadn’t felt like explaining that to Bowles.

About the Author

CHARLES TODD is the pen name of the mother-and-son writing team Charles and Caroline Todd. The authors are best known for their New York Times bestselling series set in post-World War I England, featuring Inspector Ian Rutledge. Their books have won the Barry award; been nominated for the Dilys, Edgar, Agatha, John Creasey, and Macavity awards; and voted among the favorite 100 mysteries of the 20th century by the Independent Mystery Bookseller’s Association. The twelfth book in the series, The Red Door, is currently available in hardcover. The thirteenth book, A Lonely Death, will be published in the beginning of 2011. The Todds recently started a new series featuring World War I nurse and amateur sleuth Bess Crawford. Charles and Caroline Todd live in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively.

Keep up with Charles Todd all year long. Visit their website at CharlesTodd.com, be their fan on Facebook.com/Charles-Todd, or sign up for AuthorTracker email updates at HarperCollins.com/CharlesTodd.

Also by Charles Todd

The Ian Rutledge Series

A Test of Wills

Wings of Fire

Search the Dark

Watchers of Time

Legacy of the Dead

A Fearsome Doubt

A Cold Treachery

A Long Shadow

A False Mirror

A Pale Horse

A Matter of Justice

The Red Door

The Bess Crawford Mysteries

A Duty to the Dead

An Impartial Witness

Other Fiction

The Murder Stone

Credits

Image credit: istock

A Lonely Death

A Lonely Death

Charles Todd

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A LONELY DEATH. Copyright © 2011 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Todd, Charles.

A lonely death / Charles Todd. —1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-06-172619-4

1. Rutledge, Ian (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Police—England—Fiction. 3. World War, 1914–1918—Veterans—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—England—Sussex—Fiction. 5. Villages—England—Sussex—Fiction. 6. Sussex (England)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3570.O37L64 2011

813’.54—dc22

2010018279

11 12 13 14 15 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Chapter One

Northern France, Early June 1920

The sod had grown over the graves, turning the torn earth a soft green, and the rows of white crosses gleamed brightly in the morning sun. Except for the fact that a fallen soldier lay beneath each wooden marker, it was pretty there under the blue bowl of the French sky, peaceful finally after four tumultuous years of war. Even the birds had come back, picking at the grass for seeds, insects, and worms.

The man watched them, those birds, and was reminded of a line from Hamlet, that somehow had caught a schoolboy’s imagination and then lingered in a corner of his adult mind—that a worm may feed on a king. Had these fed on lesser dead?

Many had been hastily buried where they fell, others in mass graves. Sorting the dead for proper burial had been gruesome at best. Many had never been identified. Walking down the rows now, looking at names, remembering burial details, broken bodies, bits of them, endless lines of them, he wondered if he was changed by them.

No, on the whole, he thought not. The war had been a part of the fabric of his life, and he had endured it, survived it, and was still steadfast in his purpose.

He stopped, his gaze sweeping the crosses. It was the living who concerned him now. A few had escaped him, but there were still eight left. And he was ready.

Were they?

Not that the state of their souls troubled him overmuch.

He turned his back on the cemetery, striding toward the Paris taxi that had brought him out here. And as he did, the slanting June sun warmed his shoulders.

Listening to the sound of his footfalls, he realized that he hadn’t bargained for the silence here. He wondered if those lying beneath the crosses savored it after the noise of battle. Or was it unnerving?

There was a train to Calais tonight. Another from Dover to London. But he was in no hurry.

A good dinner first, if he could find one, a bottle of wine, and then a sound night’s sleep.

As the taxi turned and drove back the way it had come, he leaned his head against the cracked leather of the seat and closed his eyes.

Chapter Two

London, July 1920

Chief Inspector Cummins walked into Scotland Yard at half past nine, went directly to his office, and set about finishing packing his books. It was his last day, and he wanted no fanfare. An injury sustained in the line of duty had put an end to his career.

“And not a day too soon,” he said to Inspector Ian Rutledge who had stepped in to wish him well. “I should have left at the end of the war. But I found one excuse after another to stay on. This case pending, that case passing through the courts. And here I still am, well past my time.” He looked up, another stack of books in his hand. “No regrets.”

“I feel responsible—” Rutledge began, but Cummins cut him short.

“Nonsense. I knew what I was doing. I hadn’t reckoned on the toll the years had taken, that’s all. I wasn’t quite fast enough. At fifty-five, one still believes one is thirty until he looks in his mirror as he shaves.”

“Will you be content in Scotland, after the bustle of London?”

“My God, yes. And if I’m not, my wife will tell me that I am.” Cummins reached for the roll of tape to seal that box and then turned to fill another. “When do you intend to marry? Don’t leave it too long. I’ll be a grandfather, next month.”

Rutledge laughed, as he was meant to do. “You’ve left behind a splendid record. We’ll be living up to it for decades to come.”

Cummins set the books down on a corner of his cluttered desk and looked around the office. The shelves were nearly empty, the desk as well, and the photographs had been removed from the walls. He took a deep breath and said pensively, “Yes, well. I enjoyed the hunt, you see. More than I should have done. All the same, there was one case I never solved. I was a little superstitious about it, if you want the truth. I kept the folder on my desk for years, telling myself I’d get to the bottom of it, sooner or later. I even dreamed about it sometimes, when I was tired. What bothered me most was not knowing whether the dead man was a sacrifice or a victim. And if his murderer had ever killed again.”

“A sacrifice?” It was an odd choice of words for a man like Cummins.

Cummins glanced sheepishly at Rutledge. “It was what struck me as soon as I saw the man. That he was left there for a purpose. A warning, if you will. Or a sacrifice of some sort. Not religious, I don’t mean that kind of thing . . .” He broke off, then shrugged, as if to make light of what he’d said. “It was the setting. It made me fanciful, I dare say.”

“When was this?”

“Long before your time. It was Midsummer’s Eve, 1905.” Cummins turned away and walked to the window, where sunlight had just broken through the morning clouds and was turning the wet pavements from a dull gray to bright pewter. “Some fifteen people had come to Stonehenge dressed as Druids. Unbleached muslin, handmade sandals, staffs of peeled oak boughs. Mind you, I doubt they knew much about ancient druidism, but they’d come to watch the sun rise and chant nonsense, and feel something—God knows what. Anyway, they walked to the stones, sang and marched, drank a little homemade mead—honey laced with rum, we were told later—and waited for sunrise.”

Cummins paused, staring not at the view outside his window but back into a past he reluctantly remembered, and Rutledge thought, He’s not going to finish it. It cuts too deep. Still, he waited quietly, ignoring the dull rumble of Hamish’s voice in the back of his mind.

Finally Cummins went on, as if compelled. “They were misguided, playing at something they didn’t understand. But harmless enough, I suppose. At length the sun rose. One of the women told me later that it was magnificent. Her word. She said the dark sky turned to opal and rose, then purest gold. As they watched, the rim of the sun appeared on the eastern horizon. She said that what followed was unbelievable—a shaft of light came spilling across the dark earth and touched her face. She said she could feel it. Just as the schoolmaster had told them. He was the one who talked them into this silliness. But even he was taken by surprise.”

Losing his train of thought, Cummins turned and said, “Where was I? Oh, yes. This young woman—her name was Sarah Harmon—was still staring at what she called the stone of sacrifice. That’s what the schoolmaster had told them it was called. It stands along the eastern avenue between the main section of Stonehenge and the horizon. Do you know it?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Hmm. She was trying to recapture a little of the emotion she’d felt when the sun struck her face, and then she noticed something odd about that stone. It was light enough, by then, you see. When she began screaming, everyone turned toward her, startled. She point to the stone. They could just make out something there and rushed down the avenue to find a man strapped to it. He was dead. Even they could see that, and when they held up their lanterns for a better view, they realized he’d been stabbed.” Cummins cleared his throat. “He was strapped to the dark side. Not toward the light.”

“Hadn’t they seen anything? Anyone?”

“Apparently not. I questioned them for hours. The body could have been out there before ever they arrived. In the dark, they wouldn’t have noticed.”

“They didn’t know the victim?”

“They swore they didn’t.”

“Not even this schoolmaster, who’d lured them out there? It would have been a perfect cover for murder.”

“Terrence Nolan? He was as frightened as the rest of them. And in the end, I believed them. I expect the murderer, whoever he was, had counted on no one finding the victim for days. As for the dead man, he was young—thirty to thirty-five at a guess—and he was wearing only a scrap of cloth, like a loincloth—there was no clothing at all, no marks on the body, nothing through which we could identify him. Even the bit of cloth was a cheap cotton that could be bought anywhere. It took us six weeks to discover his name.”

“Who was he?” Rutledge asked, intrigued.

“One Harvey Wheeler. He came from Orkney. A ne’er-do-well, according to the authorities there. His father had gone to Kirkwall to run the post, and Harvey grew up rather wild and unruly, a truant from school, roaming the island at will and never sorry for his escapades. His parents gave up trying to control him, apparently, and he went missing in 1902 after a brush with the police. It was thought he’d come south into Scotland. At any rate, he reappeared in Edinburgh in late 1903, and then left a step ahead of the police, who were after him for attempting to defraud a woman he’d met there. That was the last anyone had heard of him until he was found dead on Salisbury Plain. Why anyone would wish to kill him is still a mystery. It must have had to do with the missing two years of his life, although it always struck me as odd that someone like Harvey Wheeler should end that way. As murders go, it didn’t fit.”

“Were you certain of the identification?”

“As certain as may be. When Edinburgh took an interest in the description we’d passed around, we sent along a photograph. That was when they recommended we contact Orkney. They in turn felt it was very likely that our corpse was this young man. His father was dead by that time, and his mother too ill to be shown the photograph. But the Kirkwall police had no doubts. And so he was buried in a churchyard on the outskirts of Winchester. No one saw any point in sending the body north. That was the end of it. His murderer was never found.” Cummins paused, looking toward the window, as if it held the answer, before bringing his gaze back to Rutledge. “It was an odd inquiry from start to finish. I never felt comfortable with it. I’d have liked to go to Kirkwall myself, but the Orkney Islands are at the northern tip of Scotland, and the Yard felt it was money wasted to send me there. All the same, I’d have liked to know more about Harvey Wheeler. What brought him into England, for one thing, and where he might have lived on this side of the border.”

“The murder weapon never turned up?”

“We searched the area, every inch of it. We came to the conclusion that the murderer carried it off with him. It could be anywhere—thrown from a bridge, buried in a dustbin, returned to wherever it had come from. There would be no way to know, would there, that it had anything to do with a crime? What was odd was the coroner found a tiny flake of flint in the wound. The feeling was it was on his clothing and driven in by the force of the blow. That led us to believe two facts: that he was dressed when he was killed, although his clothing was never found, and that he must have come from a part of England where flint was readily available. And that covered a good bit of ground.”

“Was he killed there at Stonehenge?”

“Very likely not. There was no sign of a struggle. Unless of course Wheeler was drugged and carried there. Still, the coroner found no evidence of his being either drugged or knocked unconscious prior to his death. And there wasn’t enough blood at the site.” Cummins hesitated. “It was his face, I think, that disturbed me as much as the rest of it. A handsome enough man, fit and well made, more a gentleman than Wheeler appeared to be. Or perhaps that was his charm, and why he nearly succeeded in defrauding that widow. How many more women were there that we never heard of?”

“I can understand why Wheeler’s murder has remained fresh in your mind.”

“That, and the fact that it was the only case I failed to solve to my own satisfaction.” Cummins made a wry gesture and smiled. “Sheer arrogance, of course. I took pride in my record, all the same. The men used to call me Cautious Cummins. But it was always my way, to work out each detail until I could make a case out of the pieces. You remind me of myself as a young inspector, you know.” The smile widened. “I bequeath you this albatross of a case. If you ever solve it, let me know.” He went back to packing. “Don’t let Bowles lay the blame for my going on you, Rutledge,” he warned. “Because he will try. He has it in for you, he has from the day you returned to the Yard after the war. I don’t know precisely why, but he’s been instrumental in blocking promotions and failing to give you proper credit where it was due. He’s mean and vindictive. I’ve never liked him, and I’m not about to pretend now.”

“Warning taken,” Rutledge said, surprised that Cummins would speak so bluntly.

“I should finish this,” the Chief Inspector said, glancing around the room. “Two more boxes should do it, I think. I’m not one for prolonging the inevitable.” He put out his hand, and Rutledge took it in a firm grip. “I wish you well, Ian.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope your retirement will be a happy one.”

Rutledge walked to the door and was on the point of opening it when Cummins said, “Inspector. I would have no objection to hearing from you from time to time.” And then his attention returned to the half dozen books in his hands.

As Rutledge strode down the passage toward his own office, his footsteps loud on the bare boards, he wondered if he would look back at the end of his career and remember a case the way Cummins had lived with his.

“Aye, but first ye must survive long enough to leave the force on your ain twa feet,” Hamish said, his voice seeming to follow Rutledge the short distance to his own room.

Hamish was his penance for what he’d done in the war: a voice that was relentless and unforgiving, like the guilt that haunted him. In life Corporal Hamish MacLeod had been the closest thing Rutledge had had to a friend during the darkest hours of the Somme Offensive, despite the vast difference in rank between them. The young Highlander would have made sergeant if he’d survived the battle. He was a natural leader, the sort who cared for his men and understood the tactics of war. But that had been his undoing. Refusing a direct order on a battlefield had led to a firing squad. It wasn’t cowardice, it was an unwillingness to lead tired and dispirited men in another useless charge against a well-concealed machine gun nest. Yet even knowing as well as Hamish did what it would cost in lives, knowing that it was impossible to dislodge the enemy, Rutledge had had no choice but to give the order to try one more time in an effort to clear out the nest before the main attack began along the entire line. The few sacrificed for the sake of the many. And then as an example to his men, he’d had no choice but to give the order to fire that had ended Hamish’s life. Military necessity, but in human terms, despicable to Rutledge’s already battered mind.

After days of endless fighting that had killed thousands of good men for mere inches of ground and did nothing to bring the war nearer its inevitable end, this one death had seemed insupportable. A decision made at HQ, a decision that appeared sound and workable to officers far from the fighting, officers who didn’t have to look exhausted men in the face and ask them to climb over the top one more time and die to satisfy a strategy that was broken before it had even begun, had resulted in a bloodbath that was incomprehensible. Hamish MacLeod had simply given that bloodbath a personal face.

Dr. Fleming had explained it best—though it was no comfort to Rutledge to hear it: “You couldn’t accept that one man’s death. And so you refused to let him die. He’s every young soldier you tried to keep alive and failed. He’s your expression of guilt for that failure, and he will be in your head as long as that guilt lasts. Or until you die and take Hamish MacLeod with you to the grave.”

Guilt or not, Hamish’s voice sounded as clear as if it had come for a foot or so behind Rutledge’s shoulder, where Hamish had so often stood and fought. And explanations did nothing to ease the strain of knowing the voice was there, that it would speak or not as it chose, and there was nothing on God’s earth to prevent it or keep others from hearing it, even when Rutledge knew they could not. He could never be certain of anything except that Hamish had never forgiven him, just as he had never forgiven himself—even though he had never been given any choice in the matter. Hamish had taken that away too and left Rutledge to cope alone. And yet never alone.

Trying to shut out the soft Scots words in his mind, Rutledge tried to settle to the papers on his desk, and after a time he managed to concentrate on them. He knew he would miss Cummins. There were already rumors that Inspector Mickelson would be promoted to fill his place.

The Red Door

The Red Door

Charles Todd

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE RED DOOR. Copyright © 2010 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Todd, Charles.

The red door / Charles Todd. — 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-06-172616-3 (hardcover)

1. Rutledge, Ian (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Police—England—Fiction. 3. World War, 1914–1918—England—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3570.O37R43 2010

813’.54—dc22

2009024160

ISBN 978-0-06-196979-9 (international edition)

10 11 12 13 14 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Chapter One

November 1918, Hobson, Lancashire

She stood in front of the cheval glass, the long mirror that Peter had given her on their second anniversary, and considered herself. Her hair had faded from shimmering English fair to almost the color of straw, and her face was lined from working in the vegetable beds throughout the war, though she’d worn a hat and gloves. Her skin, once like silk—he’d always told her that—was showing faint lines, and her eyes, though still very blue, stared back at her from some other woman’s old face.

Four years—have I really aged that much in four years? she asked her image.

With a sigh she accepted the fact that she wouldn’t see forty-four again. But he’d have aged too. Probably more than she had—war was no seaside picnic on a summer’s afternoon.

That thought failed to cheer her. She wanted to see joy and surprise in his face when he came home at last. The war was finally over—the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Yesterday. It wouldn’t be long now before he came striding over the hill and up the lane.

Surely they would send the men in France home quickly. It had been four long lonely unbearable years. Even the Army couldn’t expect families to wait beyond a month—six weeks. It wasn’t as if the Allies must occupy Germany. This was, after all, an armistice, not a surrender. The Germans would be as eager to go home as the British.

Peter was some years younger than she, for heaven’s sake—though she’d never confessed to that, lying cheerfully about her age from the start. A man in his midthirties had no business going to fight in France. But of course he was a career soldier, fighting was what he did, in all the distant corners of the Empire. France was nearly next door; it would require only a Channel crossing and he’d be in Dover.

She had never gone with him to his various postings—Africa, China, India—to godforsaken towns whose names she could hardly remember, and so he’d bought her a map and hung it in the sitting room, where she could see it every day, with a pin in each place he’d stayed. It had brought him nearer. One year he had nearly died of malaria and couldn’t come home on leave. That was the awful winter when Timmy died, and she had been there alone to do what had to be done. She had expected to lose Peter as well, sure that God was angry with her. But Peter had survived, and the loneliness had been worse than before, because there was no one in the cottage to talk to except for Jake.

He’d sent her small gifts from time to time: a sandalwood fan from Hong Kong, silk shawls from Benares, and cashmere ones from Kashmir. A lovely woolen one from New Zealand, soft and warm as a Welsh blanket. Lacey pillow slips from Goa, a painted bowl from Madeira, its flowers rampant in the loveliest colors. Thoughtful gifts, including that small but perfect ruby, set in a gold ring he’d brought back from Burma.

She had asked, on his next leave after Timmy’s death, to go with him to his next posting, but he had held her close and told her that white women didn’t survive in the African heat, and he’d resign his commission before he’d lose her. She had loved him for that, though she would have taken her chances, if he’d asked.

She had kept back a new dress to wear for his homecoming, and each day now she must wash her hair in good soap, rinsing it in hard-to-come-by lemon juice she had also saved for the occasion. She could see too that she needed a little rouge, only a very little so he wouldn’t notice the new lines, thinking instead how well she looked.

She’d reread all his letters until they were as worn as her hands, and knew by heart every one of them. They lay in a rosewood box by her favorite chair, where she could touch them and feel his presence.

It occurred to her that she ought to do something—something so special that he’d always remember the day he came through the door and found her waiting. Something that would take his mind off her, and the changes he was sure to see first thing.

Another thought struck her. His letters had been fewer and the weeks between them longer in the past two years. And there had only been one this year. Was he concealing something? She had dreaded word that he was dead, even though he’d spent most of the war safely behind the lines at HQ. But men were wounded every day. Still, if anything terrible had happened to him, he would surely have told her—or asked the sister in charge of his ward to write to her if he couldn’t. He would never keep a secret from her. Never. They had always been close and truthful with each other about the smallest thing. Well, of course not about the difference in their ages! He’d always lived a charmed life—he’d told her about the tiger hunt that went badly wrong, and the African warthog that had nearly got him, and the storm that had all but wrecked their troop ship in the middle of the Atlantic, the volcanic eruption in Java when he was trying to bring the natives to safety.

But even charms ran out after a while, didn’t they?

His last letter had been written in early summer, telling her how enthusiastic the British were to have the Americans come into the fighting after long weeks of training. He’d told her that he’d soon be busy “mopping up.”

The Hun can’t last much longer now the Yanks are here. So, dear heart, don’t worry. I’ve made it this far, and I’ll make it home. You’ll see!

But what if—?

She put the thought out of her mind even before it could frame itself. If anything had happened, surely someone would have come to tell her.

Instead she tried to think what she could do—what would cry welcome and love and hope, and show her gratitude for his safe return at last.

She gazed around the small bedroom, at the curtains she kept starched and crisp, at the floral pattern of the carpet and the matching rose coverlet on the bed. No, not here. Leave their room as he remembered it. She went down the stairs, walking through each room with new eyes, trying to see it as Peter might. There was neither the time nor the money to buy new things, and besides, how many times had Peter told her he liked to find himself in familiar surroundings, because they offered him safety and the sure sense that he was home.

Desperate, she went out to the gate, to see if she could fasten something there, a banner or ribbons. Not flags, flags had taken him off to war. And not flowers—there were none to be had at this time of year.

She turned to look at the house, neat and white and holding all her happiness, except for Timmy. She wouldn’t change it for the world.

And then all at once she knew what she must do. It stared back at her with such force she wondered she hadn’t thought about it before.

The next morning, she walked down to the village and bought a tin of paint and carried it home jubilantly.

That afternoon, as the sun came out from behind the clouds and the light breeze felt like early autumn again, she painted the faded gray front door a vibrant and glorious red.

A Pale Horse

A Pale Horse

Charles Todd

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A PALE HORSE. Copyright © 2008 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST HARPER PAPERBACK PUBLISHED 2009.

The Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover edition as follows:

Todd, Charles.

A pale horse / Charles Todd.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-06-123356-2

1. Rutledge, Ian (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Police—England—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—George V, 1910 –1936—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3570.O37P35 2008

813’.54—dc22

2007018088

ISBN 978-0-06-167270-5 (pbk.)

09 10 11 12 13 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Chapter One

BERKSHIRE

Early April 1920

It was nearing the full moon, and the night seemed to shimmer with light.

He walked down the lane and turned to look up at the hillside.

The graceful white horse cut into the chalk by ancient Britons galloped across the green slope without stirring from its place.

He couldn’t see it without remembering. That was the only reason he had chosen to live in this Godforsaken place. To torment himself until he couldn’t bear it any more.

The horses had died too, in that first gas attack. It wasn’t just the men. The poor beasts couldn’t know what the low-lying mist wafting toward them brought in its wake.

An eyewitness had likened the cloud to a great horse moving across a barren meadow, ambling toward the barn for its dinner. Not hurrying, not drifting, just moving steadily, without apparent purpose, without apparent design, following the wind as the horse followed the scent of its stall and the fresh hay heaped in the manger. But like the pale horse of the Apocalypse, on his back rode Death. And Hell had truly followed them.

He smiled grimly at the imagery.

He hadn’t been there when the Germans unleashed the chlorine attack against the Allies at Ypres. Yet it had changed his life in ways no one could have foreseen.

He wished he’d never heard the name of that medieval Belgian town. He wished the Germans had never reached it. Or that the British had left well enough alone and let them have the wretched place.

There was a silver flask of brandy in his pocket, and he felt for it, uncapped it, lifted it to his lips, then paused.

What if he drank it to the dregs and crawled into the ruins of Wayland’s Smithy to die, like a wounded animal hiding itself away until it either healed or breathed its last?

Would anyone care?

A shadow was coming up the road toward him. It was Andrew Slater, the smith. It was impossible not to recognize him, even at this distance. Andrew was built like a church tower, tall and broad and solid. But the man didn’t turn at the lane. He passed by without speaking, as if sleepwalking, moving on toward the Smithy. Like to like.

It would be crowded inside with the two of them there, he told himself with black humor. Not counting whatever ghosts lingered in that narrow Stone Age tomb.

I envy Andrew Slater, he thought, there in the darkness. He lives only in the present, while I have only the past.

He drank a little of the brandy, for courage, saluting the pale horse with his flask. Then he turned and trudged back to his cottage and turned up all the lamps for comfort.

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE KIDNAPPING. Copyright © 2010 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition December 2010 ISBN: 9780062061973

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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