He wondered if she had even heard his questions. “Drink a little tea. It will help,” he told her, pushing her cup closer to her. “Is there someone in the village I can bring to you? A woman relative? A friend?”
She obediently reached for the cup. Her hands were shaking, and she had to use both to steady the cup and lift it to her mouth. Ignoring the question, she asked tentatively, “Was he—was he alone when he died?”
He took that to mean whether anyone had been there with him, but before he could answer the door opened and a man came through, calling, “Ruthie? I just heard about Will—” He broke off, frowning, as he saw the two people at the table, drinking tea. But he couldn’t at first see Ruth’s face, for she had leaned back into the shadows again. “Sorry. I didn’t know the pub was open. I’d heard it was closed, that’s why I came over. Is Will feeling any better then?”
She cleared her throat. “I haven’t spoken to him since the morning,” she replied huskily, and then added, her voice breaking, “Donald. It’s Sam.”
Rutledge had risen as Donald moved quickly across the room, dropping into the chair Rutledge had just vacated. He reached for Ruth’s hand as she set the cup down, and held it tightly.
“What’s happened? Tell me, I’ll take you to him.”
“He’s dead,” she replied, her voice empty of feeling. “Sam is dead.”
Donald looked from her to Rutledge. “Is that true? I don’t understand. Who are you?”
“My name is Rutledge. Scotland Yard. I was called to Wales to investigate when a body was discovered in the River Dee.”
“Sam’s body?” he repeated blankly. “In Wales? When? Are you sure?”
“He was found on Saturday last. We have good reason to believe it must be Milford. Do you recall a tattoo on his left arm, the insignia of the Bantam Battalions?”
“Yes, of course I do. Surely there’s more than a tattoo to go on? There must be thousands of Bantams in Shropshire—even in Wales, for that matter. The first battalion raised was in Cheshire.”
“There is other evidence,” Rutledge said, not wanting to mention the shirt and the tailor in Llangollen to him. “That’s what led me to Mrs. Milford. Can you tell me what took Mr. Milford to Wales?”
“I didn’t know he’d gone there.” He glanced at Mrs. Milford, then turned back to Rutledge. “I thought he was in Shrewsbury.”
Mrs. Milford began to weep again. “He was. It was about Tildy. It’s always about Tildy.”
Rutledge asked, “Do you know, does she have a photograph of Milford? It would help to have it.” It would not help identify the body, but it might be useful in tracking Milford’s movements.
“Ruthie?”
“At the house. In my bedroom.”
“Is there anyone—a woman—who might come and sit with her?” Rutledge asked in a low voice.
“My wife, Nan. She and Ruthie are cousins. I’ll fetch her, and that photograph.” Rising, he hesitated. “It’s a shock—I can’t bring myself to believe—what happened?”
Rutledge moved away from where Ruth was still sitting, and Donald followed him. “That’s one of the reasons why I’m here. If Milford was meeting someone in Wales, perhaps that person could help us find out more.”
“Yes, I see. But what happened?” he persisted.
“He was found in the Dee, near a small village,” Rutledge told him. “He’d had a fall.”
“A fall? From where?”
“It appears he fell from a height.”
Donald frowned. “I know there are mountains in Wales—I can’t think why Sam was climbing one.”
“Have you been there?” Rutledge asked with interest.
“No.” He gestured toward the bar. “I help out in here whenever Sam is away. Seeing to supplies, paying creditors. We’ve had a few travelers from Wales.”
“Anyone in particular? Anyone who might have known Milford, or who had some reason to contact him here?”
Donald shrugged. “I doubt it. That’s to say they’re only stopping for the night, and are gone the next day. I never heard of Sam speaking privately with any of them.” He glanced toward Ruth Milford again. “I’d better go.”
Rutledge turned to see that she had put her head down on the table, cradled by her arms. Even from here he could tell that she was shivering.
“Go on.”
He crossed to the table, took off his heavy coat, and wrapped it around Mrs. Milford’s shoulders. She didn’t lift her head but seemed to huddle into the warmth from his body as well as the thick wool. He moved her teacup, hardly touched.
Waiting for Donald, and leaving Mrs. Milford to her grieving, he had a moment to look around the pub. It was L-shaped, the longer leg of the L filled with tables and the bar. The shorter leg was more spacious, with a second hearth, the dartboard, and fewer tables. The bar had been prosperous once, but it was beginning to show a shabbiness that couldn’t, he thought, be completely the fault of the war. Where were the miners or their descendants, from the framed photographs everywhere? There were mine lamps and other paraphernalia mounted high on the walls. Someone had kept these dusted, he noticed.
But there was no one to ask.
The door opened again, and a woman rushed in. She had the same auburn hair and brown eyes as her cousin, and they were much alike. Rutledge would have thought they were sisters, if he hadn’t known otherwise.
She hurried to Ruth, kneeling beside her chair, her arms around her. “Oh, my dear. Donald told me. Is it true?”
“That’s what he said, Nan,” Ruth replied wanly, nodding in Rutledge’s direction. “It must be so.” The tears began again. “What am I to do?”
Nancy turned on Rutledge. “How could you break it to her like this? Last Saturday?” she demanded. “This news could have waited an hour longer! Why didn’t you come to me first? Nancy Blake, Ruth’s cousin. Everyone knows us. Anyone could have directed you to us.”
He said, “I came to the inn looking for the Milford house. She began asking questions, refusing to tell me anything until I answered them.” He realized that sounded as if he thought she might be protecting Mrs. Milford. “As you might have done.”
Nan shot a quick glance toward the door, as if looking for her husband. Rutledge couldn’t quite read it.
Ruth touched her cousin’s shoulder. “Don’t blame the Inspector, Nan. It’s my fault. He told me he’d come from London—I thought he was a solicitor—I was afraid to tell him anything, with Sam away. I hoped to put him off.” She put her hands over her eyes again, and her voice was only a thread. “Everything is my fault. It has been from the start. Tildy—” She couldn’t go on.
“Nonsense,” Nan replied briskly, turning back to her and taking her hands again. “It was never your fault. Never. What happened to Tildy was not something any of us could prevent. And Sam grieved for her as much as you did. As all of us did.”
“And now Sam’s dead. We’ll never know why . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Rutledge watched the two women. This wasn’t the first time that Ruth Milford had blamed herself for what happened. Had they quarreled? he wondered. And her husband had left her? There was the other man, outside the tailor shop in Llangollen. Had Milford somehow discovered his existence, and gone to Wales to confront him?