A False Mirror - Charles Todd [14]
But Rutledge was gone before the man had finished his question.
The Whittier house was no more than a stairwell-and-a-room wide. He went up the front steps and knocked firmly at the door.
A woman answered the summons, her face a little flushed, her curling fair hair more than a little mussed.
“Mrs. Whittier?”
“Yes?” Her voice was rather breathless, and her manner dismissive, as if he had no business knocking at her door at this hour of the day.
“I’m looking for Constable Waddington. Will I find him here?”
The flush deepened. “Oh—yes. He was just—he was just helping me with the—attic door. I couldn’t shift it at all, and my trunk is in there—”
But Rutledge was already moving past her into the house.
“Waddington!” he bellowed, and the constable came hurrying to the top of the stairs, buttoning his tunic at the neck.
“Who are you?” the constable retorted. “And what do you want of me?”
“Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. Come down here and get on with your duty.”
Waddington moved swiftly down the steps, straightening his tunic as he came, and brought up short at the foot of the stairs. Braced for a reprimand and worse. The skin around his eyes was tight with apprehension. He was a short, thin man, with a ruddy complexion, as flushed now as Mrs. Whittier’s.
Rutledge said, “I need you to identify someone for me. Hurry!”
Relief flooded Waddington’s face, and he cast a swift glance at the woman watching anxiously. A wordless warning.
Rutledge was out the door with Waddington at his heels, and they had hardly reached the bottom step before the house door swung quietly shut, the latch turned.
“I’m sorry, sir. Mrs. Whittier is a widow woman and—”
“—the attic door wouldn’t budge.”
Waddington trotted beside him, attempting to keep up. “Er, yes, sir.”
“There’s a man called Fields who appears to live on Swan Street, the fourth house down. The tobacconist knew him by name. Do you?”
Waddington responded, “Scarred face, tall?”
“Yes.”
“That’s his sister’s house. He’s been living there since her husband was killed last month. A widow, three small children—”
“What happened to her husband? What’s his name?”
They had nearly reached the tobacconist’s shop on the corner.
“Greene, sir. He was murdered. By person or persons unknown.”
Someone had known. Whether the inquest had been aware of it or not.
“Any reason for the killing?”
“Money, sir. A scheme that went wrong, one that was to make his fortune. Only he was taken advantage of and lost everything instead. All his savings. This according to the widow at the inquest. All the same, she couldn’t name the man who tricked him. Greene had kept his dealings to himself, wanting to surprise her, he said. She begged him to go to the police, but the next day he turned up hanging from a tree along the Thames. His killer tried to make it look like suicide, but it didn’t wash. He’d been garroted first.”
And the men in Green Park had been garroted.
They had stopped at the corner, and Rutledge indicated the house in question. “Is that where Greene lived, and Fields now lives with his sister?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s walk on, shall we? As if we’re looking for someone else.”
As they went on up the road, Waddington said, “What’s this in aid of, sir? Why are you asking about Mr. Fields? Do you think he committed the murder?”
“No. But I think he’s been out for revenge.”
A cab came along and Rutledge hailed it. “I want you to maintain a close watch on Fields for me. If there’s any change in his circumstances, call me at once. Or Sergeant Gibson, failing that. Meanwhile, keep this to yourself. I don’t want gossip in the canteen or the shops. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Am I to do anything else?”
“Yes. Stay away from Mrs. Whittier while you’re on duty.”
When he reached the Yard, Rutledge learned that Chief Superintendent Bowles was well on his way to an apoplexy, and screaming for Rutledge’s blood.
6
Stephen Mallory stood there at the foot of the stairs, staring helplessly at the