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    The Gate Keeper: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
    The Gate Keeper: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
    The Gate Keeper: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
    Ebook419 pages7 hours

    The Gate Keeper: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery

    By Charles Todd

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    On a deserted road, late at night, Scotland Yard’s Ian Rutledge encounters a frightened woman standing over a body, launching an inquiry that leads him into the lair of a stealthy killer and the dangerous recesses of his own memories in this twentieth installment of the acclaimed New York Times bestselling series.

    Hours after his sister’s wedding, a restless Ian Rutledge drives aimlessly, haunted by the past, and narrowly misses a motorcar stopped in the middle of a desolate road. Standing beside the vehicle is a woman with blood on her hands and a dead man at her feet.

    She swears she didn’t kill Stephen Wentworth. A stranger stepped out in front of their motorcar, and without warning, fired a single shot before vanishing into the night. But there is no trace of him. And the shaken woman insists it all happened so quickly, she never saw the man’s face.

    Although he is a witness after the fact, Rutledge persuades the Yard to give him the inquiry, since he’s on the scene. But is he seeking justice—or fleeing painful memories in London?

    Wentworth was well-liked, yet his bitter family paint a malevolent portrait, calling him a murderer. But who did Wentworth kill? Is his death retribution? Or has his companion lied? Wolf Pit, his village, has a notorious history: in Medieval times, the last wolf in England was killed there. When a second suspicious death occurs, the evidence suggests that a dangerous predator is on the loose, and that death is closer than Rutledge knows.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateFeb 6, 2018
    ISBN9780062678737
    Author

    Charles Todd

    Charles Todd is the New York Times bestselling author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, the Bess Crawford mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, Caroline passed away in August 2021 and Charles lives in Florida.

    Read more from Charles Todd

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    Reviews for The Gate Keeper

    4/5

    126 ratings19 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Rutledge has gone for a drive from London right after his sister's wedding, and during his late night meanderings comes upon a woman getting out of her car, distraught because her companion has been shot in the middle of the road. Of course, one thing leads to another and Rutledge takes over the case. The puzzle is that the victim was universally liked, except by his mother. The ghost of Rutledge's war buddy continues to ride in the back seat of his car and give him advice.
    • 4/5
      An excellent entry in this fine series. The Todd books are rarely page-turners for the next action bit. WW1 still intrudes but Hamish seems to less intrusive. Now that his sister is married; it is time for Rutledge to get on with life. His painstaking plodding keeps unearthing little bits that he struggles to fit into the puzzle. Two apparently senseless murders of proper gents challenge him until the end.
    • 5/5
      The Gate KeeperByCharles ToddWhat it's all about...I think that this was my very first Ian Rutledge mystery. Ian is a Scotland Yard investigator recovering from a very damaging war experience. This book took place in the 1920’s...there were still fires warming old English houses and cottages and cars that had to be cranked. Telephones were rare...no cell phone service? Teasing...of course. This book begins as Ian is driving away from his sister’s wedding...taking a break...when he sees a woman in the middle of the road holding a dead man. Of course he can’t get away from this and becomes the investigator of the case. And of course the case just gets worse and worse. More murders, family secrets and lots of interesting suspicious townspeople.Why I wanted to read it...I loved the cover and the description and once I read the first few pages...I was in. The writing is gorge, the plot excellent and the pace was perfect for a complex cozy mystery.What made me truly enjoy this book...Everything about it was delicious. Ian is so damaged that he fights his demons constantly. He is the consummate professional Scotland Yarder. Loved all of the tea that everyone drank in this book!Why you should read it, too...Readers who love complex cozy mysteries should love this book. The ending was a surprise...a total surprise to me and I loved that!
    • 4/5
      After his sister gets married, Scotland Yard's Ian Rutledge feels even more unmoored than usual and takes a long drive, with the voice of deceased friend and fellow soldier, Hamish, in his head. He happens upon an unusual murder scene and, even though it's outside his district, seizes the investigation like a man who desperately needs an excuse to not return home. The case is a grim tale of seemingly pointless murder. Rutledge has to burrow into the victim's past in the hopes of finding clues to unmask the killer. A solid police procedural that hinges mostly on Rutledge's interviews with the people of the town and his attention to detail. World War I looms large as everyone who fought experienced "his own war" which very likely affected their civilian lives afterwards.
    • 3/5
      The war has been over for two years, but for Rutledge he remains in the grip of an action he had to take as an officer. He carries his guilt with him, with the voice of Hamish forever in his ear. Upon leaving the wedding of his sister he encounters a woman in a car on the road. Ahead in the road lies the body of a dead man. Soon it will be up to Rutledge to piece together the strange specific of the murder.This is another long running series I have read from the beginning. It is atmospheric, and Rutledge is a character, the voice of Hamish adding an imperative voice from the background. Despite that, I think it is time to let Rutledge grow, embrace life more fully or at least getting help to do so. Like Evanovich, and Stephanie Plum his character seems stuck in place. Additionally there was so much going back and forth between witnesses which caused this story to not only be repetitious, but the plot to drag. By no means will I stop reading this series, but it suffers from its long run. It has stalled, as some do, and needs a push, a surprise, something to push it forward. ARC from Edelweiss.
    • 5/5
      I enjoyed this book. Ian Rutledge has seen his sister married and decided to take a few days off and drives out of London. Late at night he spots a woman on the road standing over a man’s body. Stopping, she tells him that a man was standing in the road and when her date got out of the car he shot her friend. Ian manages to get assigned to the case and starts interviewing acquaintance who all say the dead man was well liked. There are people who don’t tell him everything feeling it has nothing to do with the murder and of course it’s always one little overlooked missing fact. Ian is suffering from shell shock of WWI and the voice of a dead soldier in his mind helps him solve the case.
    • 5/5
      After his sister’s wedding in 1920, Detective Inspector Ian Rutledge is feeling a bit out of sorts so he decides to go for a drive. Lost in thoughts of the war, he is forced to brake suddenly when he sees a woman in the road standing over a body. Although she has blood on her hands, she claims she is innocent. She then tells a strange tale about the murder that seems so far-fetched that Rutledge is convinced it must be true. Not wishing to return to London, Rutledge manages to get himself named lead in the investigation. Soon he is knee deep in village gossip and family secrets. Trouble is, despite all this, the murdered man seems to be the least likely candidate for murder, well, except according to his own family. And then there is another almost identical murder and then another miles away, all the victims, men who seem almost universally liked and who seem to have nothing in common. When I read a book by Charles Todd, I know I have a safe read. By this I don’t mean safe in the sense of same old same old – in fact, just the opposite. Rather, I know it will be well-plotted and -written with complex characters and a compelling story and that I need to set time aside for it because, once started, I’m not going to be able to put it down. The Gate Keeper is no exception to this. It’s the 20th addition to the Inspector Ian Rutledge series and it is still one of the best series around. For anyone who loves intelligent historical mysteries, I can’t recommend this highly enough.Thanks to Edelweiss + and William Morrow for the opportunity to read this book in exchange for an honest review
    • 5/5
      Set in 1920. Rutledge is still suffering from post traumatic stress from the war and the recent marriage of his sister brings painful reminders of what life might have held for him.The investigation he takes on into the shooting death of a motorist in the middle of the night in a sense provides a welcome distraction from his war memories and personal life, but in reality there is no getting away from the war and the impact it had on people's lives.The title is a puzzle right to the end. The plot is intricate, and some of the strands tested credibility but as always the character portrayal was excellent.Simon Prebble does a superb job of the narration.
    • 4/5
      Inspector Ian Rutledge survived WW I with a bad case of shell shock, the ghost of his Sergeant and too many sleepless nights. One such night finds him on a long empty road suddenly faced with a woman standing over the dead body of her escort. Before the journey ends, there will be three dead men who, having survived a long and bloody way, will be murdered close to home less than two years after the war's end.The series consistently follows the struggles of those who suffer from shell shock, also known as cowardliness, and or those trying to fit back into a normal life after the horrors of the trenches, the loss of limbs and the damages of the gas attacks.
    • 4/5
      I admit to be a fan of the writing team of Charles Todd. When I hear a new book is upcoming I put it on any list I can to obtain an early copy. The Gate Keeper, as so many others in the Inspector Ian Rutledge series, is a murder mystery set in the English countryside in the years following World War I.The quiet, contemplative nature of the lead character, Inspector Ian Rutledge, is the determining force of each story. We are told he is fragile and has demons that confront him relentlessly. We recognize him to be the defender of the murdered. He is not a perfect man, just a perfect character. My only complaint lies with the esoteric title, but that does not serve as a distraction nor a detraction. Another story well told.
    • 5/5
      Wow! This book was just stellar in my opinion. I don’t know how the authors continue to produce such quality mysteries time after time. I have read all the Ian Rutledge mysteries and this is one of the best. This one is set in December 1920. Ian’s sister Frances has just gotten married and Ian is feeling at loose ends. He and his sister had become close after their parents’ deaths and now he is feeling a bit of a third wheel. The wedding is over and the couple off on their honeymoon trip and Ian can’t sleep. He decides to take a drive to who knows where to settle down. He is driving down the road and comes upon a car stopped in the middle of the road with a woman standing over a man’s body and her hands are covered in blood. Ian has literally driven into his next case.As he begins his investigation, he lobbies to be given the case as he was the first on the scene. There is some grumbling from other quarters, but Ian does land the case. He questions the victim’s acquaintances and family. He comes away with two very different pictures. His acquaintances and friends reveal a well-liked man with no enemies. His mother calls him a killer. Ian can’t understand such hatred of a mother for her own son, especially one who returned safely from the war. Another man is found murdered and he too apparently is well-liked with no enemies. What is the connection between the two men? Ian really must dig to find this answer and it is taking too long. Another murder is soon reported in a nearby village. Ian realizes that it is connected to his case as the victim was known to have contact with the other two victims after a fashion. Ian is dogged in his questioning again and again of certain people who had contact or knowledge of the victims. He questions until someone reveals a small detail that leads to another detail that breaks open the case, but he must have proof and that might very well cost him.This is one of my favorite mystery series and I eagerly look forward to the release of each book. The writing is descriptive and puts me right there in the story. Ian is not without his own struggles, which makes him so much more human and not just a character on the page. I would recommend reading the first couple of books in the series though before reading this one. Those will give the reader some valuable history and background on the main character. Readers also will enjoy another series by this author featuring Bess Crawford, a nurse during the First World War. Thanks to the writing team of Charles Todd for another excellent Ian Rutledge mystery!
    • 5/5
      Inspector Rutledge of Scotland Yard finds himself with a puzzling murder in the English countryside in December 1920. The British are still struggling with the consequences of the Great War: injured and maimed soldiers are everywhere, war widows struggle to support themselves, and families mourn their lost sons, brothers and so on. Rutledge himself is still suffering in silence with his "shell shock" although his symptoms have lessened. He still carries around the voice of Hamish, the Scot he executed in the War.The story starts the day Rutledge attends the wedding of his sister Frances. After the festivities, as he would say, he is "at sixes and sevens". He drives into the English countryside where in the early morning hours he comes upon a murder scene: a stranger stood in the road forcing a car to stop and then shot the driver dead when he emerged from his car. His female travelling companion is left unhurt but badly shaken. After some jockeying for position, Rutledge assumes control of the investigation which is headquartered at the town of Wolfpit. What follows is a engaging story about the dead man and his family, and others in the village. Rutledge can find no reason for the man's murder, he was a bookseller who was well liked. Then a second man from the village is killed in much the same fashion as the first. Again, there is no apparent motive for the killing and there is no strong connection between the two.Rutledge conducts his inquiry in his usual methodical way, talking to people who knew the men. He reaches out to some private sources for background information. He has difficulty getting many to co-operate in his investigation, for a variety of reasons (pride, jealousy and sheer bloody-mindedness) they are reluctant to share information. Finally an offhand remark from a particularly disagreeable person, sets Rutledge on the path to his eventual solution of the murders.Even though the story is long and readers are sent up several blind alleys, it holds your attention right up to the exciting conclusion. The characters are well-drawn and interestingly strong women play leading roles in the story. It is a good introduction to the Inspector Rutledge series, It can be read as a standalone because there is sufficient backstory included to make sense of things. Highly recommended to fans of complex detective fiction and to those who enjoy historical crime fiction.
    • 5/5
      The Gate Keeper is another wonderful volume in the Ian Rutledge series from Charles Todd. If you are familiar with the series then you will not be disappointed with this one and if you haven't read one yet this can be read as a standalone, enough of Rutledge's history is given naturally as the story progresses.If you're like me you read a lot of the fast-paced mysteries that have fewer moments to ponder the mystery. Those sometimes feel like you're just along for the ride. Even when the mystery is hard to figure out there is still a sense that you're really just as interested in the excitement as the mystery itself. I love those, so my comments aren't meant to be taken as a negative on that part of the genre. But I need novels like this periodically, more cerebral without being a tough read. Clues hidden in plain sight and leads are followed not with the sense of certainty that contemporary detectives might have (even when they're wrong) but with a genuine curiosity about what happened and why.Couple the wonderfully methodical mystery with beautiful descriptions of the countryside and life right after WWI and it is easy to get lost in the time and location. I would recommend this to lovers of mysteries (obviously) and for anyone who enjoys well-written descriptions of the English countryside.Reviewed from a copy made available by the publisher via LibraryThing Early Reviewers.
    • 4/5
      Inspector Ian Rutledge transports the reader back to the era perfectly. The way in which he investigates each lead and interviews witnesses - to the descriptions of villages , scenery and the life then in general ….he is so quintessentially British . I have enjoyed each and every book in the series so far.
    • 3/5
      Although there are similarities between Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford, each is still his or her own character. At this point, I like Bess better. This particular work is ho-hum on the mystery scale. Todd spends altogether too much time on subsequently proves to be unnecessary verbiage. As a police person, Rutledge seems to not know where to turn and the solution just sort of drops out of the sky.
    • 4/5
      I love this series. So good on the psychological effects of shell shock, and the economic and cultural changes right after WWI. Great characters, complex mysteries.
    • 3/5
      The Gate Keeper (2018) (Insp. Rutledge # 20) by Charles Todd. What an odd story. Inspector Rutledge, for reasons explained in the book, is driving late at night through the countryside with no particular destination in mind. He chances upon a stopped car, a young woman and a dead man.So begins this twisted tale that hinges about a small town book store that the young man had purchased, Estranged parents, a love interest that seems more like a convenience than a desire and a convoluted search for the reasons behind the murder do not truly add to the tale. Toss in another odd murder and you have a mystery, not not a very good one. Add to that a last moment revelation and you have a story that limps along.Still if you have read the rest of this long running series, you expect to have a humble addition that is not worthy of the past books. I expect the next book to be better.
    • 4/5
      A mother will do anything, whether good or evil, for her son. If Charles Todd's 2018 novel “The Gate Keeper” carries a message, that is it.Not one of the better novels in the excellent Ian Rutledge series, this one makes good reading nonetheless. The Scotland Yard inspector has the weekend off to attend a wedding, but unable to sleep after the wedding he is driving down a country road in the middle of the night when he comes upon a murder scene.Stephen Wentworth, an owner of a bookstore, had been driving a young woman home from a party when they are stopped by someone standing in the road. When Wentworth gets out of his car, he is shot and killed after a brief conversation. Rutledge happens along just minutes later.It appears to be a murder without a motive. The only person Rutledge can find who didn't like Wentworth is his own mother, who blames him for the death of her favorite son, Stephen's brother, when they were sleeping together as small boys.The investigation goes nowhere until there is another murder of another well-liked man with no apparent connection to Wentworth. Rutledge later hears of another murder in another village that sounds similar. Again there is no apparent connection or motive.Rutledge has the strangest sidekick in mystery fiction, the voice of Hamish, a Scottish soldier whom he executed during the Great War in France after Hamish refused an order to lead his men on yet another suicidal charge against the German line. Now Hamish offers advice about his former officer's murder case, and this time Rutledge needs all the help he can get.
    • 5/5
      Wow! This book was just stellar in my opinion. I don’t know how the authors continue to produce such quality mysteries time after time. I have read all the Ian Rutledge mysteries and this is one of the best. This one is set in December 1920. Ian’s sister Frances has just gotten married and Ian is feeling at loose ends. He and his sister had become close after their parents’ deaths and now he is feeling a bit of a third wheel. The wedding is over and the couple off on their honeymoon trip and Ian can’t sleep. He decides to take a drive to who knows where to settle down. He is driving down the road and comes upon a car stopped in the middle of the road with a woman standing over a man’s body and her hands are covered in blood. Ian has literally driven into his next case.As he begins his investigation, he lobbies to be given the case as he was the first on the scene. There is some grumbling from other quarters, but Ian does land the case. He questions the victim’s acquaintances and family. He comes away with two very different pictures. His acquaintances and friends reveal a well-liked man with no enemies. His mother calls him a killer. Ian can’t understand such hatred of a mother for her own son, especially one who returned safely from the war. Another man is found murdered and he too apparently is well-liked with no enemies. What is the connection between the two men? Ian really must dig to find this answer and it is taking too long. Another murder is soon reported in a nearby village. Ian realizes that it is connected to his case as the victim was known to have contact with the other two victims after a fashion. Ian is dogged in his questioning again and again of certain people who had contact or knowledge of the victims. He questions until someone reveals a small detail that leads to another detail that breaks open the case, but he must have proof and that might very well cost him.This is one of my favorite mystery series and I eagerly look forward to the release of each book. The writing is descriptive and puts me right there in the story. Ian is not without his own struggles, which makes him so much more human and not just a character on the page. I would recommend reading the first couple of books in the series though before reading this one. Those will give the reader some valuable history and background on the main character. Readers also will enjoy another series by this author featuring Bess Crawford, a nurse during the First World War. Thanks to the writing team of Charles Todd for another excellent Ian Rutledge mystery!

    Book preview

    The Gate Keeper - Charles Todd

    Dedication

    For Tubby, with a heart twice his size.

    For Marla too, whose heart and home have

    sheltered so many cats over the years, not even

    counting those in the wild she has fed and tended.

    And for Biddle, dearest Biddle, who walks on tiptoe

    and has a sense of humor.

    Contents

    Cover

    Title Page

    Dedication

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 13

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15

    Chapter 16

    Chapter 17

    Chapter 18

    An Excerpt from A DIVIDED LOYALTY

    Chapter 1

    P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

    About the Author

    About the Book

    Read On . . .

    Praise

    Also by Charles Todd

    Copyright

    About the Publisher

    1

    December 1920

    Ian Rutledge drove through the night, his mind only partly on the road unwinding before him. He was north of London, and a little to the east of it as well. But he had no particular destination in mind.

    At this late hour, he should have been asleep in his flat in London. He’d gone there with that in mind, but as soon as he’d crossed the threshold it had felt different. Stuffy. Claustrophobic. Almost alien. It was where he lived—but it was not his home, had never really been his home. In the end, he’d tossed a razor and a change of clothes in a small valise and returned to the motorcar. Telling himself that he’d be back in London in time for breakfast with Melinda in the morning.

    His sister, Frances, had been married that afternoon, and the reception afterward had gone on until close to midnight. But he remembered the day only in snatches, moments that seemed to loom out of the darkness, to fill his thoughts.

    Standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for Frances and her attendants to come out of her room and walk down to join him. Thinking that his parents should have lived to share this moment with her. That his father should be the one to give her away, and that his mother should be upstairs with her now, putting the final touches on whatever was keeping them. Her hair or her gown. Bridal nerves.

    And then Melinda Crawford was coming to the head of the stairs, heralding his first glimpse of his sister in her gown.

    It had been a shaft to the heart to see her, as beautiful as she had ever been and happier than he’d remembered her being for a very long time. There had been someone during the war, while he was in France. An officer. She had loved him very deeply, but he had been killed, and she’d never spoken his name afterward. Rutledge had found out about him quite by chance, and never mentioned what he knew. There had been another man after the war, one she’d thought she loved. Rutledge had been through the aftermath with her, offering what comfort he could. But this time, he thought, she’d made the right choice.

    Then he was sorting the wedding party out as they got themselves and their gowns into the line of motorcars waiting to take them to the church, much laughter and confusion as Frances remembered something blue, and Melinda had had to go back upstairs to find the ribbon that had once belonged to their mother.

    He’d been afraid from the start that Frances might choose St. Margaret’s for her own wedding. It was very fashionable—and rather beautiful as well. But the last time he’d seen Jean, the woman he’d expected to marry, she’d been coming out of St. Margaret’s after conferring with her bridesmaids over some detail of her own wedding. But not to him. To a man who was being posted to Canada, taking Jean with him to a very different life from the one a shell-shocked former officer of His Majesty’s Army could hope to offer.

    Frances, tactfully, had chosen St. Martin-in-the-Fields instead, a church his parents had often attended, particularly for Evensong. It had significance for Peter as well. His ancestors had been Navy, and St. Martin’s was the Admiralty church.

    It was just off Trafalgar Square, not very far. He couldn’t remember much about that drive, except for his sister’s hand holding his, and nervously squeezing it sometimes.

    His next clear memory was of walking through the doors of the church with Frances on his arm, seeing the bunches of silk flowers decorating the pews, ribbons trailing to the floor, and everywhere, candlelight, the scent of melting beeswax perfuming the air. The organ was playing, and with a last smile for Frances, Melinda was being led down the aisle on the arm of one of the groomsmen. The music changed, and it was the turn of the bridesmaids, a sea of faces smiling as they passed.

    Peter was standing by the altar, his face turned toward the door, but he couldn’t see Frances yet. There was happiness there, and a sense of wonder, as if he couldn’t believe this day had come at last.

    Waiting for the signal, Rutledge could feel his own heartbeat, and then Frances had looked up at him, tears in her lashes, smiling. He brought her arm closer to his side.

    It’s beautiful, he said softly, and so are you.

    It was what his father might have said, and he knew at once it was the right thing.

    And then they were pacing down the aisle to the rhythm of the music, and when it had stopped, he took Frances’s hand and placed it in Peter’s before stepping back.

    He remembered his lines, when the question was asked: Who giveth this woman?

    Her parents and I, he’d said firmly, because that was what his sister had wanted.

    He found his seat next to Melinda Crawford, and she reached out to rest her hand on his arm for a moment, as if she knew what was in his heart.

    She probably did. Melinda was one of the most unusual women he’d ever met. As a child, she’d been caught up in the Great Indian Mutiny of 1857, a heroine in the bloody siege of Lucknow that had cost so many lives. And she had never looked back, her life taking its course through marriage and widowhood and years of travel before she returned home to England. She had been a friend of his parents, and she had been close to him and his sister throughout their childhood. She had been there when news came that their father and mother were dead.

    What he didn’t know, sitting there beside her as Frances and her fiancé spoke their vows, was just how much Melinda cared for him. But he thought he could guess. He was the son she’d never had, for she had never remarried.

    And then Frances was turning from the altar, her eyes lit with joy, and the new husband and wife went up the aisle together, leaving him to follow.

    She would have other allegiances now. Husband, please God children of her own, and he would take his rightful place in the background of her new life. Much as he wished her happiness, the sense of loneliness he’d felt since her engagement was still raw. He wanted her to marry. He wanted her to move on. And yet he would miss the knowledge that she was there if he needed her. He hadn’t. Not in the two years since the end of the war. He’d made a point not to need her, not to draw her into the horror of his war, the shell shock, the voice he carried in his head. He had never told anyone but the doctor who had treated him and saved his sanity. Most certainly not Frances. Still, she had been an anchor in his life that he’d needed badly once Jean had deserted him. A sense of responsibility for someone else, when the desire to end it all swept him in the darkness before dawn.

    It had been Frances, uncertain why he was locked away in the silence of his mind, who had brought Dr. Fleming to see him. He would never be able to tell her how grateful he was for that decision. Without Dr. Fleming, he would have been shut up in a clinic for incurable cases.

    His next memory was of the reception at the Savoy beneath those splendid chandeliers. Frances, dancing with her husband, and then with him, in his father’s place. Afterward he’d danced with Melinda, and she’d made him laugh. He’d wondered if she knew how much he cared for her, and how much he didn’t want her to know the truth about him. She was Army, she would not look lightly at shell shock.

    To his surprise, Kate Gordon was a wedding guest. She was Jean’s cousin, but so very different from Jean. He’d always liked her. But one awful night in Cornwall, he’d found out just how much courage she possessed. And how much she had cared. He’d avoided her since then, not wanting to hurt her, not wanting to drag her into his world. She too was Army, both her father and her uncle and most of her friends.

    Still, they’d danced a number of times, and he’d done his duty with the bridesmaids, the wallflowers, the older women who remembered his parents and commented on how much they would have loved this night.

    And then he’d danced again with Kate, the strain of Cornwall gone, and her presence in his arms feeling very natural.

    The bride and groom had left after the dinner and more dancing, running out of the hotel’s ballroom in a shower of rice and good wishes. It was late when he’d said good night to everyone, driven Melinda back to the house that had been his parents’ and now belonged to Frances. Melinda had asked him to come in for a cup of tea, but he’d smiled and said he was tired. She’d looked at him with that direct gaze that seemed to see through the wall he’d put up to prevent her from guessing what he kept from her, and how he felt at this moment. And she’d said, quietly, My dear, you were a tower of strength today. Come and have breakfast with me in the morning.

    Instead here he was, on a dark road somewhere—he thought in Suffolk. He seemed to remember a sign reading CAMBRIDGE an hour back.

    Too many memories . . .

    Tired now, having to blink his eyes to keep them from closing, he knew he’d have to find somewhere to sleep, and soon, if he wasn’t to run off the road into a ditch. And that, he told himself, he could not do. Nothing must cloud Frances’s happiness.

    Hamish had—blessedly—been silent all day. As Rutledge was getting dressed, driving to the house to meet his sister, then to the wedding, the reception, it was the one thing he’d feared, that the war would come back and shame him, frighten Frances and her guests, and expose his nightmare for all the world to see. Somehow, he’d held the past at bay. It had taken all the will he possessed, but somehow it had worked.

    Now, tired as he was, lonely as he felt, he was vulnerable, and suddenly Hamish was there in the motorcar with him, sitting in the seat behind him, a voice in his ear. Corporal Hamish MacLeod was dead, buried in France. Rutledge was as sure of that as any man could be. After all, he’d shot Hamish, and watched the light fade from his eyes as he died. He’d heard the young Scot’s last whisper before he’d pulled the trigger in the coup de grâce: Fiona. The woman Hamish loved and wanted more than life itself to come home to. And yet, knowing the cost, Hamish had refused to lead any more men into the teeth of the machine-gun nest that had already killed too many of them. And Rutledge had had no choice but to make an example of him. It had to be done, or none of the men in his command would have followed him over the top again. What’s more, they would have faced court-martial and, most certainly, another firing squad. Sacrifice one man to save many. Send them over the top to silence the machine gun, before it killed more men tomorrow when the big push began.

    He shook his head, trying to shove those memories back into the shadows. Trying to stop Hamish while he could, but it was too late, and the brightness of the headlamps became the flashes of artillery fire, followed by the machine guns. And the war was back.

    He fought it, and never knew how many miles he’d driven by rote, unaware of where he was and what he was doing, his hands gripping the wheel as he’d gripped his revolver and his whistle.

    The screams of the wounded and dying filled his mind, and he shouted to his men, encouraging them, urging them on, and all the while he cursed himself as one by one they fell.

    Without warning, the sounds began to recede and the darkness in his mind once more became the bright beams of his headlamps probing the night.

    And almost too late he saw what they picked out just ahead of him.

    A motorcar was stopped in the middle of the road, its doors standing wide. He’d hardly taken that in when he realized there was a woman in the road too, bending over the body of someone—a man—lying haphazardly at her feet.

    Rutledge was already pulling hard on the brake, bringing the heavy motorcar to a skidding halt not twenty feet from the rear of the other vehicle. It was then he saw one more piece of the tableau in front of him.

    There was blood on the woman’s hands.

    The woman looked up, staring toward him in dismay, fright filling her eyes as she stood there like stone, all color washed out of her face, and the blood on her hands black in the brightness bridging the gap between them.

    2

    Rutledge, recovering from the shock more quickly than the woman standing in the road did, switched off the motor and got down, walking swiftly toward her, forcing his mind to concentrate on what he was seeing.

    What happened here? he asked, the voice of authority, of a Scotland Yard Inspector, taking over from habit. The voice didn’t seem to belong to him, somehow.

    And then he was once more in control.

    She couldn’t speak, her fear constricting her throat.

    He stopped. He could already see that the man was dead. And no weapon was visible. Both the woman and the man on the ground were wearing evening dress.

    It’s all right, he said more gently. Just tell me what has happened.

    We were driving back to the village. There was someone standing in the road, she said, her voice trembling, uncertain, as if she hadn’t been there but had heard the story from someone else. There was the slightest hint of a Scots accent as she went on. "We had to stop. I thought he must be in trouble, and we could help. Stephen told me to stay in the motorcar, and he himself got down. The figure didn’t move at first. He—he just stood there. It was—I was beginning to be frightened. And Stephen was saying something like ‘Do you need help?’ I think he asked twice, because it seemed that the other man didn’t grasp what he’d said. The man started forward, then, and I realized he had a revolver in his hand. He just walked up to Stephen, said something I didn’t hear—and he—he brought the weapon up until it pointed at Stephen’s chest, and he shot him. Just—shot him."

    Rutledge could see the black patch across the front of the dead man’s shirt, open to the night. Not a lot of blood—his heart had stopped beating quickly.

    The woman looked down at her hands. "I opened his coat, I tried to stop the bleeding with his scarf. But I think he—I think he was already dead."

    Rutledge glanced around, saying, Where did he go? This man? Did you see?

    He just turned and walked across the road—that way— She pointed to her left. And vanished. I didn’t care, as long as he was gone. I had to help Stephen.

    What’s your name? he asked her.

    Elizabeth . . . Elizabeth MacRae. She was beginning to shake now, in the aftermath of shock. Clasping her hands together to still them, she went on in rising hysteria. I’ve never watched someone die. It was horrid.

    Keeping her within his line of sight, Rutledge moved toward the man, knelt beside him, and felt for a pulse. The action was perfunctory, but it had to be done. The body was quite warm. This had only just happened. And it appeared that the man had been shot. Just as she’d described. He glanced quickly under the motorcar. If there was a revolver there, he couldn’t see it.

    "Is he—is he alive?" she asked, a flare of hope in her eyes.

    I’m afraid not.

    She leaned against the frame of the door, looking faint.

    Rising, he took Miss MacRae’s arm and guided her away from the body to the far side of the motorcar. Where had you come from? Where were you going?

    We—we were dining with friends. It was rather late, they—they urged us to stay the night. But—but Stephen had plans for tomorrow. To-today. Her teeth were chattering now, and he looked into the rear seat of the motorcar, found a folded rug there, and draped it around her shoulders. She clutched at it, pulling it closer.

    He thought she was on the verge of being sick, but he said, Stephen? She had no rings on her left hand.

    Stephen Wentworth. He—he lives in Wolfpit. Lived. She began to cry, and he handed her his handkerchief. She buried her face in it.

    Rutledge walked to the front of the motorcar and examined the road for any evidence that might support her account. But he couldn’t find any footprints. The deep winter ruts crisscrossed each other in irregular patterns, making it impossible to pick out details. Still, he searched carefully, even walking to the verge to look for signs that someone had passed that way. Or that a revolver had been tossed into the high grass there as soon as his headlamps were visible in the distance.

    The greatest danger, he knew, was that she was telling the truth.

    Was the killer out there somewhere, watching? Still armed . . .

    If, of course, he actually existed.

    It could as easily have been a lovers’ quarrel that ended in murder. But how many men carried a weapon in their motorcar? If it was a service revolver, had this Stephen Wentworth been afraid of something? Was that why it hadn’t been locked in the boot? Why wasn’t it put safely away in an attic or box room, with other reminders of the war brought back from France?

    His own was locked in the trunk under his bed . . .

    Rutledge walked back to Miss MacRae. She had stopped crying, her face streaked with tears and the blood from her hands, but he thought she was nearly at the end of her strength. She was leaning against the cold metal of a wing, head down, eyes looking inward. She raised her head, but said nothing.

    Rutledge was in a quandary. He could hardly shove Wentworth’s body into the rear of his own motorcar and leave this one where it stood. He had done a cursory examination of the vehicle, it was too dark for more than that, and he didn’t relish leaving it in the middle of the road where anyone might come upon it. Or the killer return to it.

    He said, Can you drive?

    I—yes. She stared at him, uncertain what he was asking.

    How far is Wolfpit from here?

    Tw-two miles, I think. Three at most.

    Does it have a policeman?

    Yes. Constable P-Penny.

    He considered her. She was wearing a rather pretty dinner gown, shimmering gold under a matching wrap, and gold slippers, muddy now. There were feathers in a spray, held by a pin in her fair hair. Hardly proper attire for driving a large motorcar.

    Will you take my motorcar, drive to the village, and bring back the local Constable? Tell him there has been a death, and we’ll need the doctor. He’ll know what to do.

    I don’t think I can manage it, she said, anxiously gazing up at him. Is there any other way?

    I’m afraid not. He let that take root in her mind, then asked, Are you sure you didn’t recognize the man in the road?

    I don’t know that Stephen did, either. He was just—there. In the middle of the road. Waiting.

    What was he wearing?

    I don’t think I noticed. You don’t understand—it happened so quickly. There was no time really to look at him.

    He let it go for the moment.

    And you didn’t hear what he said to Wentworth?

    She shook her head.

    Did Wentworth reply?

    I don’t think so. No, he must have done. Just a word or two. But I didn’t hear that either.

    We must have the police, and the doctor. I’m reluctant to leave him lying there, but I don’t want to move the motorcar. Not yet. You’ll have to go in my place. Or else stay here alone.

    That was all the persuasion she needed. No. She shook her head again, the feathers dancing. Anything but that.

    He led her to his motorcar, turned the crank, and collected his torch from the boot before helping Miss MacRae into the driver’s seat. She looked around for a moment, as if she had never seen gauges before. He waited, giving her time to collect herself. Finally, setting her mouth resolutely, she pulled her skirts aside so that she could reach the pedals, then put her hands on the wheel.

    With some trepidation he watched her drive slowly around Wentworth’s motorcar and carry on toward the village.

    In a matter of seconds, he was alone on the road.

    He stood there, staring at the scene, dark now without his own headlamps to light it. Wentworth’s beams probed the shadows ahead, catching movement as a predawn breeze stirred the dry grasses. A fox’s muzzle poked out of the undergrowth, sniffed the air, then vanished as quietly as it had appeared.

    What had he heard or seen as he was coming up to Wentworth’s motorcar?

    He tried to remember. Had he heard a shot? Or a woman’s scream? He couldn’t quite believe he’d missed the sound of a shot. Not even in the throes of nightmare.

    The problem was, he couldn’t be sure.

    Had it been the approach of his own motor that had sent the killer away? If whoever it was had stayed, would he have killed the only witness too?

    Why hadn’t he killed her, come to that?

    Rutledge went back to the body lying in the road, switching on his torch. A single shot, almost point-blank range. Meant to kill, not to frighten or wound.

    The dead man was fair, of medium height and build, a gentleman from the quality of his clothing, and reasonably attractive. There were laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, smoothing out now in death, but just visible.

    Who had wanted to see him dead? Did someone know that he would be coming down this road at this hour of the night, and wait for him? This wasn’t a main thoroughfare, just a narrow road through fields joining two small villages. It wouldn’t have been heavily traveled, not at this hour.

    The killer couldn’t have been at the party that Elizabeth MacRae had attended—she would have recognized him. And the same was true of the village. If he lived in Wolfpit, she would very likely have known who he was. Not by name, perhaps, but certainly able to identify him.

    Still, in Rutledge’s experience, it was odd that in a random murder like this, Wentworth was dead—and Miss MacRae still alive. Surely there had been time to fire at her before disappearing?

    There was another explanation. Either the killer was looking for Wentworth, or he thought Wentworth was the man he sought. Had he been mistaken? And if he had been, would he stand in the road another night, and kill again, until he found the victim he wanted?

    Hamish spoke suddenly, loud in the quiet of the night.

    Or it was the lass herself. Miss MacRae?

    Rutledge had to keep that in mind as well. It was, in fact, far more likely that she had shot Wentworth than that someone had appeared out of the darkness and killed him. A quarrel, Miss MacRae threatening to get down, the motorcar stopping abruptly in the middle of the road. Wentworth getting down as well, as the quarrel escalated into a shouting match . . .

    The problem was the revolver. Where had it come from? There was no indication that they’d fought over possession of it. Those elegant feathers in Miss MacRae’s hair would surely have been the first victim of any struggle.

    Rutledge began a thorough search of the vehicle. But there was nothing useful to be found. Wentworth’s hat, lying on the rear seat with his gloves. Miss MacRae’s purse, lying on the floor of the passenger’s seat, a beaded affair on a silver chain that was far too small to conceal a revolver. But there was a coat in her seat as well, with deep enough pockets.

    You didn’t carry a revolver with you in your coat pocket to a fashionable dinner party. Not unless you expected to need it. For protection. Or in anticipation of a quarrel ending badly. But then she might have left it out of sight in the motorcar before going in.

    Hamish said, Jealousy?

    If Miss MacRae had carried it with her—where was it now?

    Finishing his search, Rutledge scanned the road on either side. It was relatively flat here and open, no hedgerow or straggle of trees to make a killer’s disappearance easier. To his left, he could just see hay stacked in the field beyond the fallow one closest to the road, eerie humps in the darkness. On the far side, a shed of some sort, shapeless and swaybacked, as if it had been there a very long time and was near to collapsing.

    Which direction had the killer taken? Surely he would have gone the shortest distance, toward the hayricks? Still, he might have doubled back once he had got clear, to throw searchers off.

    The field of hay would take longer to search. Torch in hand, Rutledge set out toward the shed. The ground was rough, muddy in some places. He thought, as he nearly lost his footing for a second time, that this had been a pasture plowed up during the war to grow a crop, then abandoned at war’s end. Every bit of arable land had been put to the production of food, once submarines in the North Atlantic made it nearly impossible to bring in sufficient supplies from overseas. He cursed the field now. When he finally reached the shed, he saw that the door was half off its hinges, hanging crookedly inside the frame. He swept the interior with the torch, but it was empty save for scraggly weeds that had survived for a time and then died, leaving behind skeletons of their past.

    Although Rutledge looked closely, he couldn’t find footprints in the dry soil of the interior. He looked on the outside as well, circling the shed in the hope of spotting where someone might stand out of sight and watch for passersby. In the end, reluctantly, he ruled out the shed.

    He had just reached the road again when he saw his motorcar approaching. A Constable was driving, the shield on his helmet gleaming in the reflection of the headlamps. Beside him, looking exhausted, was Miss MacRae.

    They pulled up well ahead of the dead man’s motorcar, and the Constable got down, striding forward to meet Rutledge.

    Constable Penny, sir, he said. What’s this about a body?

    Rutledge took him to see where Wentworth was lying, and heard the low whistle as Penny recognized the dead man.

    Know him, do you? Rutledge asked.

    He lives in Wolfpit. Owns a bookshop there. But who shot him? I couldn’t quite make out the story the young lady was telling me. Did you see what happened? I understand you came along only moments later. There was a detectable hint of suspicion in the policeman’s voice.

    Unfortunately I arrived just after the shot was fired. By that time the killer had vanished in the darkness, according to Miss MacRae.

    Do you know her, then?

    No, I don’t, Rutledge answered. He indicated the interior of the motorcar. No weapon that I’ve been able to find. You might have better luck in daylight.

    That was wrong of you, sir. Meddling with the crime scene.

    Yes, well, we don’t know where the shooter went, and I’d rather be in possession of his firearm than find it pointed at me when my back was turned.

    That’s very brave of you, sir. There was a hint of sarcasm in the Constable’s voice.

    He went to stand in the open door of the motorcar, peering inside, poking around. Rutledge wondered if he’d come to the same conclusions. What brought you along this road tonight, sir? he asked, withdrawing from the vehicle and taking out his notebook.

    What had brought him along this road? He couldn’t have said. Nor could he explain himself to this man. Rutledge looked back the way he’d come, and finally answered, after examining the map in his head, I was on my way to Ipswich.

    "And your name, sir?

    Rutledge. He reached in his pocket, and found that he’d left his identification in the London flat. Inspector. Scotland Yard.

    Can you prove that, sir?

    I was on personal business this evening. Morning, he added as he looked toward the eastern sky. But the first faint rays of false dawn hadn’t appeared. I don’t have my identification with me. He realized he’d driven much farther and much faster than he’d expected. London seemed a very long way behind him. And the wedding had receded in his mind, driven out by the return of the war. What had made that stop so abruptly? Had it been the sound of a real shot close by? Was that why he couldn’t actually recall hearing it?

    I see, sir, Constable Penny was saying.

    Rutledge knew that the man couldn’t possibly begin to understand. Is the doctor coming?

    Yes, sir, Dr. Brent is on his way. Although he’ll not be able to help this one.

    Miss MacRae had remained in Rutledge’s motorcar. He could see the pale oval of her face, the color drained even more by the brightness of his headlamps.

    Turning back to Penny, Rutledge said, I’ve walked out to the shed you can see over there. No sign of anyone hanging about, waiting for Wentworth to come along. But I haven’t gone in the other direction. Now you’re here, I’ll have a look.

    I’d rather you waited, sir. For the doctor.

    That’s my motorcar, Constable. I’m not likely to walk away and leave it.

    As if he hadn’t recognized the dryness in Rutledge’s voice, Penny nodded and then began to examine the scene for himself, studying the ground, the position of the body relative to the vehicle, and finally walking along the verge.

    Rutledge stood to one side, watching him. Penny was making much the same survey that he himself had done. A competent man, he thought, and unwilling to take anyone’s word for what had happened here. He himself had already contaminated the ground, but it couldn’t be helped. Still, there had been damned little to find.

    As a place to commit murder, this was ideal. No habitation in sight, the road relatively straight in either direction, making it possible to see vehicles approaching long before the killer could be spotted.

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