The Confession - Charles Todd [69]
“What is it?” Rutledge asked. “What has happened?”
“You haven’t heard, then?”
“No,” Rutledge answered, Hamish’s voice sounding a warning in his mind.
“It’s Chief Superintendent Bowles. He’s in hospital. A heart attack.”
Rutledge was stunned. “Bowles?”
He’d thought the man was indestructible.
“What’s the outlook?”
“Grim,” Sergeant Gibson replied. “Sir. We’re to go on about our duties as if he were here and in charge. Meanwhile, upstairs they’re making a decision about his temporary replacement.”
As long as it wasn’t Mickelson, Rutledge was comfortable with whatever choice his superiors made. Not that the man had the seniority for such a promotion. Still, stranger things had happened. And he and Mickelson had a long history, none of it pleasant.
He thanked Gibson and went into his office.
Trying to imagine the Yard without Bowles was impossible, Rutledge thought as he sat down at his desk. The man had been his nemesis almost from the day he arrived here, jealous of the new wave of men replacing those who had risen from the ranks. Rutledge himself had done his duty as a constable, and walked the streets in fair weather or foul. But he came from very different roots, and what’s more he’d been well educated. Bowles appeared to believe from the start that Rutledge had an eye to his position, true or not, and had done everything in his power to prevent it. Consequently Rutledge had been passed over for promotion more than once. The reasons for denial had been true, as far as they went, but couched in terms that reflected on Rutledge’s ability.
Rutledge also had a feeling that Bowles had used his authority as a Chief Superintendant to search his background for any flaws. And he had wondered more than once if Bowles had somehow discovered just where his newly returned Inspector had been from the day of the Armistice in 1918 to the date of his official return to the Yard, 1 June 1919.
Indeed, his very first inquiry after the war was one where the chief witness was a shell-shocked man. And Bowles had not told Rutledge that. He’d had to discover it for himself when he reached Warwickshire.
If Rutledge’s shell shock became public knowledge, his position at the Yard would be untenable. He knew that. And as for Hamish MacLeod—it was unthinkable that anyone should learn about him. The shame would be unbearable.
Rutledge went cold at the thought.
Hamish said, “Aye, but Dr. Fleming is no’ one to talk.”
But there had been others in the clinic, nurses, orderlies—visitors.
Unable to stand the close confines of his office, he glanced through the papers awaiting his attention, dealt with them swiftly, and remembered his promise to the woman who had seen the Triumph crash.
He wrote a brief note indicating that against all odds, the cyclist had survived the accident without serious injury and had been released from St. Anne’s hospital in a matter of hours.
It would do. It was all she needed to know.
Sealing the envelope, he set it to one side for the constable who came round to collect letters for the post, then thought better of it. Pocketing it, he walked out of the building. No one stopped him or asked where he was going.
He found a postbox on a corner just beyond where he’d left his motorcar and then continued to The Marlborough Hotel, where he could use a telephone.
The clinic, he was told by an operator’s disembodied voice, did indeed have a telephone, and he was put through after several minutes.
When Matron came on the line, he knew at once that Russell hadn’t returned.
Giving her a brief account of events, including the whereabouts of the Trusty, he added that he was still searching for the Major.
She listened to him, then said, “A moment, please, Inspector.”
When she returned to the telephone, she said, “I’m so sorry. But a man has just come. He has already spoken to Mr. Hiller, he tells me. I appreciate your message, Inspector.”
“Have you looked for Russell at his house in London?”
“I have. That’s to say, I asked one of our former orderlies