It's on your way out of town."
8
It was nearly dusk when Rutledge came to the turning for Dudlington, and if he hadn't been on the lookout for it, he'd have missed it.
An inn, standing alone on a rise, was all that could be seen in a wide landscape of fields running from his left down the slope of the land toward a little stream only visible because of the straggling line of trees that followed it. In the distance he could just see a low line of roofs that indicated barns.
He passed the inn as he turned, and made a note of it. Then he was in the village some hundred yards beyond.
Holly Street was narrow, with houses on either side set directly on the road. Farther on, Whitby Lane turned off to his left, and when he followed that, he saw that Church Street, coming in on his right, led to the churchyard, with the slender steeple of the church rising over the roofs surrounding it.
No one was about, except a dog trotting down the lane toward his dinner. And there was no sign to indicate where Constable Hensley lived. Rutledge turned the motorcar near the churchyard and went back the way he'd come, toward the inn.
The Oaks stood on higher ground than the village, a large inn for its location, with a pedimented front door that spoke of better days.
He opened the door and found himself in a spacious lobby that had once been the entry to the house. A handsome stair climbed to a landing and turned out of sight.
There was a bell on a table by the door, and he rang it.
After a moment a woman came out of the back, tidying her hair, as if she had just taken off an apron.
"Good afternoon, sir, are you stopping for dinner? We don't serve for another two hours."
"I'm looking for a room."
She was skeptical. "I don't know that we have one available. I'll just ask Mr. Keating."
She left him there in the hall, and soon a balding man of about forty-five came out to speak to him.
"You're looking for a room, is that it, sir? For the night?"
The inn appeared to be empty, except for the man and the woman.
"For several days. Inspector Rutledge, from London." He was curt, tired of delay.
"Ah. You're looking for Constable Hensley's house, I take it. Second on the right, Whitby Lane. Not hard to find—follow the main road into the village and you can't miss it."
"I've no intention of staying the night at Hensley's house. I'm looking for a room here."
Keating was silent for a moment. Then he said, "We've got a room or two. I keep them for travelers. This is a rather isolated part of the world, as you must have noticed, and we're accustomed to people late on the road, looking to stop the night. But I'm afraid we're booked up, just now."
The words were firm, brooking no argument. But where were the motorcars or carriages by the door to support Keating's claim?
Rutledge was about to point that out when he recalled what an elderly sergeant had told him years before: "I remember the day when a policeman under the roof frightened away custom. I'd be offered poor service and a cramped little room at the back, beneath the eaves, in the hope I'd go away sooner."
He didn't think Keating was prepared to offer him even that. The innkeeper stood there, inflexibility in every line, although the pleasant expression on his face stayed securely in place. Short of calling the man a liar, there was nothing more to be said.
Rutledge turned on his heel and left.
He found Hensley's small house squeezed between a bakery and a greengrocer's. The door was unlocked, and he let himself in, feeling the chill from no fire over the last several days. The cold seemed to hang in the air, and the darkness in the tiny entry compounded it.
Retrieving his torch from the motorcar, he walked back inside searching for a lamp. The bloom of light dispelled the sense of emptiness, but it wasn't until he'd got a fire going well in the parlor that served as an office that he took off his hat and coat and set them aside.
The parlor was a square room, windows only on the
8
It was nearly dusk when Rutledge came to the turning for Dudlington, and if he hadn't been on the lookout for it, he'd have missed it.
An inn, standing alone on a rise, was all that could be seen in a wide landscape of fields running from his left down the slope of the land toward a little stream only visible because of the straggling line of trees that followed it. In the distance he could just see a low line of roofs that indicated barns.
He passed the inn as he turned, and made a note of it. Then he was in the village some hundred yards beyond.
Holly Street was narrow, with houses on either side set directly on the road. Farther on, Whitby Lane turned off to his left, and when he followed that, he saw that Church Street, coming in on his right, led to the churchyard, with the slender steeple of the church rising over the roofs surrounding it.
No one was about, except a dog trotting down the lane toward his dinner. And there was no sign to indicate where Constable Hensley lived. Rutledge turned the motorcar near the churchyard and went back the way he'd come, toward the inn.
The Oaks stood on higher ground than the village, a large inn for its location, with a pedimented front door that spoke of better days.
He opened the door and found himself in a spacious lobby that had once been the entry to the house. A handsome stair climbed to a landing and turned out of sight.
There was a bell on a table by the door, and he rang it.
After a moment a woman came out of the back, tidying her hair, as if she had just taken off an apron.
"Good afternoon, sir, are you stopping for dinner? We don't serve for another two hours."
"I'm looking for a room."
She was skeptical. "I don't know that we have one available. I'll just ask Mr. Keating."
She left him there in the hall, and soon a balding man of about forty-five came out to speak to him.
"You're looking for a room, is that it, sir? For the night?"
The inn appeared to be empty, except for the man and the woman.
"For several days. Inspector Rutledge, from London." He was curt, tired of delay.
"Ah. You're looking for Constable Hensley's house, I take it. Second on the right, Whitby Lane. Not hard to find—follow the main road into the village and you can't miss it."
"I've no intention of staying the night at Hensley's house. I'm looking for a room here."
Keating was silent for a moment. Then he said, "We've got a room or two. I keep them for travelers. This is a rather isolated part of the world, as you must have noticed, and we're accustomed to people late on the road, looking to stop the night. But I'm afraid we're booked up, just now."
The words were firm, brooking no argument. But where were the motorcars or carriages by the door to support Keating's claim?
Rutledge was about to point that out when he recalled what an elderly sergeant had told him years before: "I remember the day when a policeman under the roof frightened away custom. I'd be offered poor service and a cramped little room at the back, beneath the eaves, in the hope I'd go away sooner."
He didn't think Keating was prepared to offer him even that. The innkeeper stood there, inflexibility in every line, although the pleasant expression on his face stayed securely in place. Short of calling the man a liar, there was nothing more to be said.
Rutledge turned on his heel and left.
He found Hensley's small house squeezed between a bakery and a greengrocer's. The door was unlocked, and he let himself in, feeling the chill from no fire over the last several days. The cold seemed to hang in the air, and the darkness in the tiny entry compounded it.
Retrieving his torch from the motorcar, he walked back inside searching for a lamp. The bloom of light dispelled the sense of emptiness, but it wasn't until he'd got a fire going well in the parlor that served as an office that he took off his hat and coat and set them aside.
The parlor was a square room, windows only on the
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