Search the Dark: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery (Ian Rutledge Mysteries, 3)

“Todd's Ian Rutledge mysteries are among the most intelligent and affective being written these days.” ― The Washington Post Book World “Evocative...An absorbing mystery.” ― The Orlando Sentinel “[A] profound and insightful rendering of a Britain between the wars.” ― The Hartford Courant From the Publisher "[A] profound and insightful rendering of a Britain between the wars." -The Hartford Courant Charles Todd lives on America's East Coast, but he knows England well. Intrigued by puzzles in the human spirit, he is the author of the critically acclaimed Inspector Ian Rutledge series, including A Test of Wills, Wings of Fire, and Search the Dark . Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Search the Dark By Charles Todd St. Martin's Press Copyright ©2000 Charles ToddAll right reserved. ISBN: 9780312971281 Chapter One T he murder appeared to be a crime of passion, the killer havingleft a trail of evidence behind him that even a blind man might havefollowed. It was the identity of the victim, not the murderer, that broughtScotland Yard into the case. No one knew who she was. Or, more correctly perhaps, whatname she might have used since 1916. And what had become of theman and the two children who had been with her at the railwaystation? Were they a figment of the killer's overheated imagination?Or were their bodies yet to be discovered? The police in Dorset were quite happy to turn the search overto the Yard. And the Yard was very happy indeed to oblige, in theperson of Inspector Ian Rutledge. It began simply enough, with the London train pulling into thestation at the small Dorset town of Singleton Magna. The stop therewas always brief. Half a dozen passengers got off, and anotherhandful generally got on, heading south to the coast. A few boxesand sacks were offloaded with efficiency, and the train rolled outalmost before the acrid smoke of its arrival had blown away. Today, late August and quite hot for the season, there was a manstanding by the lowered window in the second-class car, trying tofind a bit of air. His shirt clung to his back under the shabby suit,and his dark hair lay damply across his forehead. His face was worn,dejection sunk deep in the lines about his mouth and in the circlesunder tired eyes. He was young, but youth was gone. Leaning out, he watched the portly stationmaster helping a pale,drooping woman to the gate, the thin thread of her complainingvoice just reaching him. "... such hardship," she was saying. What did she know about hardship? he thought wearily. She hadtraveled first class, and the leather dressing case clutched in her lefthand had cost more than most men earned in a month. If they werelucky enough to have a job. There had been no work in London. But he'd heard there was abuilder hiring down Lyme Regis way. The train was a luxury BertMowbray couldn't afford. Still, jobs didn't wait, and you sometimeshad to make the extra effort. He refused to think what hewould do if he'd guessed wrong and there was nothing at the endof his journey but a grim shake of the head and "No work. Sorry." His gaze idly followed a porter awkwardly trundling his cart fullof luggage across the platform, followed by a pair of elderlywomen. The cars were already jammed with families on their wayto the seaside, but room was found for two more. Then his eye wassuddenly caught by another woman outside one of the cars fartherdown the train, kneeling to comfort a little girl who was crying. Aboy much younger, not more than two, clung to the trouser leg ofthe man bending protectively over them, speaking to the womanand then to the little girl. Mowbray stared at the woman, his body tight with shock anddismay. It couldn't be Mary ? "My God!" he breathed, "Oh, my God! " Turning from the window, he lunged for the door, almost knockingthe wide-brimmed hat from the head of a startled farmer's wifewho couldn't get out of his way fast enough. He tripped over herbasket, losing precious seconds as he fought for his balance. Hercompanion stood up, younger and stouter, and demanded to knowwhat he thought he was doing, her red, angry face thrust into his.The train jerked under his feet, and he realized it was moving. Pulling out ? "No! No? wait! " he screamed, but it was too late, the train hadpicked up momentum and was already out of the small station, afew houses flashing by before the town was swallowed up by distanceand fields. He was nearly incoherent with frustration and the intensity ofhis need. He yelled for the conductor, demanding that the train bestopped? now! The conductor, a phlegmatic man who had dealt with drunkensoldiers and whoring seamen during the war years, said soothingly,"Overslept your stop, did you? Never mind, there's another justdown the road a bit." But he had to restrain Mowbray before they reached the nextstation?the man seemed half out of his mind and was trying tofling himself off the train. Two burly coal stokers on their way toWeymouth helped the conductor wrestle him into a seat while aprim-mouthed spinster wearing a moth-eaten fox around hershoulders, never mind the heat, threatened to collapse into stronghysterics. Mowbray had gone from wild swearing and threats to helpless,angry tears by the time the train lurched into the next town. Heand his shabby case were heaved off without ceremony, and he wasleft standing on the station platform, disoriented and distraught. Without a word to the staring stationmaster, he handed in histicket for Lyme Regis and set off at a smart pace down the nearestroad in the direction of Singleton Magna. But the woman and children and man were gone when he got tothe town. And no one could tell him where to find them. He wentto the only hotel, a small stone edifice called, with more imaginationthan accuracy, the Swan, demanding to know if a family of fourhad come in by the noon train. He stopped at the small shops thatsold food and the two tearooms nearest the station, describing thewoman first, then the children and the man. He badly frightenedone clerk with his furious insistence that you must have seen them!You must! He tracked down the carriage that served as the town taxi andangrily called the driver a liar for claiming he hadn't set eyes on thewoman or the man, much less the children. "They're not here, mate," the middle-aged driver declaredshortly, jerking a thumb toward the back. "See for yourself. Nobodylike that came out of the station today while I was waiting.If you was to meet them here, it's your misfortune, not mine. Maybe that you got your dates wrong." "But they can't have vanished!" Mowbray cried. "I've got to findthem. The bitch? the bitch! ?they're my children, she's mywife ! It isn't right?I tell you, if she's tricked me, I'll kill her, Iswear I will! Tell me where she's got to, or I'll throttle you as well!" "You and who else?" the man demanded, jaw squared and faceflushed with an anger that matched Mowbray's. All afternoon he haunted Singleton Magna, and a constable hadto caution him twice about his conduct. But the fires of angerslowly burned down to a silent, white-hot determination that lefthim grim faced and ominously quiet. That evening he called at everyhouse on the fringes of the town, asking about the woman. Andthe children. Had they come along this road? Had anyone seenthem? Did anyone know where they'd come from, or where theywere going? But the town shook its collective head and shut its collectivedoors in the face of this persistent, shabby stranger with franticeyes. Mowbray spent the night under a tree near the station, waitingfor the next day's noon train. He never thought of food, and hedidn't sleep. What was driving him was so fierce that nothing elsemattered to him. He stayed in Singleton Magna all that day as well, walking thestreets like a damned soul that had lost its way back to hell anddidn't know where to turn next. People avoided him. And this timehe avoided people, his eyes scanning for one figure in a rose printdress with a strand of pearls and hair the color of dark honey. Bythe dinner hour he had gone. Hardly anyone noticed. When a farmer discovered a woman's body that evening, theblood from her wounds had soaked deeply into the soil at the edgeof his cornfield, like some ancient harvest sacrifice. He sent for thepolice, and the police, with admirable haste, took one look at herthere on the ground and ordered a warrant for the arrest of the manwho had been searching for her. Although there was no identificationon the body, they were fairly sure she wasn't a local woman.And the way her face had been battered, there had been a hot,desperate anger behind the blows. The missing wife, then, had beenfound. All that was left was to see that her murderer was broughtto justice. Late that same evening Mowbray was run to earth, roughlyawakened from an exhausted sleep under the same tree outside therailway station. In a daze, not understanding what was happeningto him or why, he allowed himself to be led off to the small jailwithout protest. Afterward, the inspector in charge, congratulating himself on theswift solution of this crime practically on his doorstep, boasted tothe shaken farmer on the other side of his tidy desk, "It was all ina day's work. Just as it should be. Murder done, murderer broughtin. Can't stop crime altogether, but you can stop the criminals.That's my brief." "I thought he was the one hunting all over town for his lostfamily?" "So he was. Silly bugger! All but advertising what he was goingto do when he found them." "But where are they, then? The husband and the children? Theyaren't somewhere in my fields, are they? I won't have your mentramping about in my corn, do you hear, not when it's all but readyfor the cutting! My wife will have a stroke, she's that upset already!The doctor's been and gone twice." Inspector Hildebrand sobered. He much preferred expanding onhis success to any discussion of his failure. "We don't know wherethey are. Yet. I've got my men searching now along the roadside.More than likely he's done for the lot, but so far he's sitting in hiscell like a damned statue, as if he's not hearing a word we say tohim. But we'll find them, never fear. And they'll be dead as well,mark my words. Probably saved the woman for last, she got awayfrom him, and he had to chase her. Just a matter of time, that's all.We'll find them in the end." He didn't. In the end, it was Scotland Yard and Inspector Rutledgewho had to sort through the tangled threads of deception andtwisted allegiances. By that time it was far too late for Hildebrandto retreat from his entrenched position. Continues... Excerpted from Search the Dark by Charles Todd Copyright ©2000 by Charles Todd. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more