Some thirty yards from the last cottage and set on a slight rise was a pub. He could just make out the unlit sign—The Pit and The Pony. And that was all that Crowley could boast.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, she lied to yon tailor.”
“Still, that shirt was given to the dead man at some point in time. Which tells me it reached her when Banner posted it to her. The question is, where does she live if not Crowley?”
There was a tiny general store, closed for the night, but he stopped to peer through its windows. He couldn’t see a post office inside, the surest source of information about anyone in a village.
Reversing for a second time, he drove up to the pub. Although he could see that there was a lamp burning in a window, he was nearly sure that it too was closed.
There was a yard to one side of the pub, empty save for a single bicycle, which was propped against the wall.
He left his motorcar beside it, and removing his hat, he walked over to the side door, reaching for the knob, expecting to find it locked. To his surprise, the door opened under his hand. He stepped inside.
At once he could see why the name was appropriate. There were photographs everywhere of miners, their gear, and the mine heads. Many of these appeared to have been taken over a period of years, because some of the photographs were beginning to fade a little.
Like the yard, the pub was empty, except for a young woman sweeping a small drift of dust into a pan. She straightened up, looking quickly toward the new arrival as if she had been expecting someone. He could have sworn there was hope in her pretty face, but it faded almost at once, leaving it drawn. He wondered if she had been ill.
“We’re closed this evening,” she told him. “My barman is unwell.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping for a room for the night, and perhaps my dinner,” Rutledge said pleasantly. “But I’m actually looking for the house of a Mrs. Milford. Ruth Milford. Do you happen to know where I could find her? I believe she lives in a place called The Mill.”
Her expression was wary now. “And who is looking for her?”
“My name is Rutledge. I’m from London.”
“London?” Wariness became fear. “You just missed her, love. She left for Shrewsbury this morning.”
He didn’t need Hamish, stirring in the back of his mind, to tell him that very likely Mrs. Milford had never left the village, that she was standing before him now.
He set his hat down on the nearest table. “As it happens, I’ve come to ask for information about her husband. Perhaps you know him, and can help me?”
Frowning, she put the broom aside very carefully. “What sort of information are you after? I don’t know him very well.”
There were only two lamps lit, one by the front window that he’d noticed coming up the rise, and the other on the bar. She looked him up and down, then stepped to one side, so that her face was partly in the shadow of a post that was part of the framework of the bar, setting it off from the tables.
“His full name, for a start.”
“Samuel Arthur Francis Milford.”
“Can you describe him for me? I’ve never met him.”
“Brown hair. Brown eyes.”
“A tall man?”
“Short.”
“In the Bantams, was he?”
She put up a hand to stop him. “Why would you come all the way from London to ask such questions?” She spoke the word with ridicule, as if she hadn’t believed him. “Who are you, and why are you really here?”
“Actually,” he said gently, “I’m with Scotland Yard. In London. And it’s my duty to ask these questions because there has been an accident—” He broke off as she paled and reached out for the post, as if for support.
“What do you mean, an accident? To Sam? Is he all right? Tell me. What has happened?”
“Mrs. Milford? Perhaps you should sit down.”
“Tell me,” she repeated roughly, no longer denying her name. But she turned and sat down in the nearest chair, as though needing time to brace herself.
“I was called to a village near Llangollen, in Wales. On the River Dee.” He came forward and took the chair across from her. “There had been a death, Mrs. Milford, and it is possible that the man whose body was found could be your husband.”
She shook her head, hope reviving. “You must have the wrong man. He can’t be my husband. Sam has never been to Llangollen,” she told him flatly. “Now I must ask you to leave. As I said, we’re closed.”
He took out his notebook. “During the war, did you order a shirt from a tailor in Llangollen, and ask him to sew a label into the collar, with this design?” He showed her the drawing he’d made. “The tailor told me he’d only used such a label once.”
But she couldn’t answer him. As she looked at the design, a flood of emotions chased each other across her face. Shock—denial—realization—and finally acceptance.
And she broke down then, drawing her apron up to her face to hide her tears.
There wasn’t a friend or family member here to help her through the worst of the shock. To give her a little privacy, Rutledge rose and went through the open door behind the bar into the small kitchen.
The cooker was banked but hot enough still to make tea, and he quickly found what he needed. Even as he worked, he could hear her weeping, anguished sobs. He had always hated having to break such news to the families of victims. There was never anything to say that could offer comfort. And that was a helpless feeling.
She had recognized the design on the shirt, and must have remembered too that she had been with another man at the time. Who was he? A relative? A friend? A lover? And was he still in Llangollen, close by where Sam was found?
Hamish said, “Was she telling the truth? That she didna’ know he was in Wales?”
I think she was. He’d almost answered Hamish aloud, and cursed himself for the lapse.
Giving the pot time to steep, Rutledge went back to the grieving woman and simply sat there across from her, offering whatever solace his presence might give her, alone as she was. But it didn’t appear to help. He returned to the kitchen, found a serving tray, and brought two cups of tea back to the table, hers very sweet to help with the shock, and set them down. Pushing hers forward, he resumed his seat.
“Mrs. Milford—” he began.
She shook her head, dropping the apron and not caring now if he saw her ravaged face. “Is it true? That this man might be Sam? Couldn’t you be wrong? I can’t think why he would be in Wales, of all places. He’s never been there.” She was pleading with him, never taking her gaze from his face.
“I’m afraid it must be true. He was just a little over five feet tall, wearing the shirt I described to you, and there was a tattoo on his left forearm. It appeared to be the insignia of the Bantams.”
She closed her eyes. “I can’t go on,” she said in a strained voice. “I can’t endure any more.”
Rutledge took that to mean she recognized the description.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of such news,” he went on gently. “But I must ask, there’s no one else. Do you have any idea what your husband’s business was in Wales? Why he went there?”
Ruth Milford stared at him. “I’ve lost everything now,” she said finally. “There’s nothing left, I can’t go on. It’s my fault—it’s all my fault. And I can’t bear it.”