A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [82]
Rutledge smiled. “Did he indeed go to the hotel?”
“He didn’t. My guess is he was smarter than he looked and knocked on the first door he came to. They’d have sent him to the smith.”
“Was there anything more that you noticed about him?”
“He had blue eyes. I’d not have remembered that, but Freddy Butler’s son John had eyes the same color, like the summer sky. John didn’t come back from Arras.”
“How would you describe him? Educated? A Londoner? From the Midlands?”
“And how am I to guess that? He’s not a Kent man, I can tell you. I know what a Kent man sounds like!”
“Had you seen him before that night? Or after?”
“He came back this way a day or two later, didn’t he, to take the train again. And he looked like the cat that supped on cream. Whatever his business in Marling, he was that pleased about how it went. Cheeky bastard!”
19
AFTER SOME DISCUSSION WITH SERGEANT BURKE AND A HALF hour of searching, Rutledge ran to earth the agent who was handling the sale of the house in Marling that the Leeds merchant allegedly had his eye on.
Mr. Meade was alarmed to be faced with a policeman across his desk. And a policeman from Scotland Yard at that.
“For if there’s anything untoward about this man, the sale will not go through—” He fiddled with the papers on his desk, fastidiously edging them with one side of the blotter, before moving several envelopes in the other direction and adjusting the position of the inkwell.
Rutledge said blandly, “I’ve no reason to believe that he’s involved in any crime. On the contrary, I’m after information that will close doors, not open them.”
Meade was not reassured. “He doesn’t live in Kent. At least—he will, when the sale is completed. I can’t see how he could help you. And I hope it won’t be necessary to contact him. It could put him off living here, to find Scotland Yard on his doorstep about murderers loose in Marling!”
“All the same,” Rutledge persisted, “I need to know whatever you can tell me about him.”
With a sigh, Meade said, “Wealthy. He’s prepared to sign for the house, and on his behalf I’ve already spoken with a man in Helford who can begin renovations immediately, as soon as the paperwork is completed. And that’s not all—he wants to restore the gardens. The house was once noted for its gardens. But that’s in the spring, of course, when the weather—”
Rutledge said, interrupting, “Describe him, if you will.”
“Younger than I’d expected, considering the fact that he’s done as well as he has. Fair. Putting on the weight of prosperity, I’d say. I’m told he made his money up north, in Leeds or thereabouts.” Meade was clearly more impressed with the man’s money than anything else about him.
“Name?”
“Aldrich. Franklin J. Aldrich,” the agent responded reluctantly. “The firm originally belonged to his father-in-law, I believe. Mr. Aldrich lost his father-in-law and his wife to the Influenza, and has decided to sell up and move away.”
“Why did he choose Kent?”
“The better climate. That’s what he told me. I daresay now he’s made his money, he’d like to enjoy spending it. And no doubt there’s a desire to put some little distance between himself and his roots, if he’s looking to set up as a gentleman.” Meade seemed to run out of virtues to extol and looked out the window at the busy street.
“How often has Aldrich traveled to Kent?”
“Most of our negotiations have been by letter, through his bankers. He came one weekend at the end of October, to view the property I had described. I’d actually offered him two or three possible choices, but he seemed to be in no doubt about the kind of house he wanted. It explains his success, I should think. Knowing what he wants.”
“How did he make his fortune?”
“I haven’t—er—felt free to ask him. He’s a very private person, actually. He did tell me once that the