Just then the side door opened again, and Donald came in, holding a silver frame. He looked across at the two women, then handed the frame to Rutledge. “Here.” And without waiting to see what the man from London made of it, he moved on toward his wife and her cousin as Nan coaxed her to drink a little more of the tea.
Rutledge turned the frame over. Samuel Milford had a good face. The chin was square, and the prominent nose was well shaped. An attractive man, broad-shouldered, straight-backed, staring into the camera with confidence, smiling a little. The uniform he was wearing was indeed that of the Bantams. His rank was Corporal.
Rutledge remembered the battered features lying on Dr. Evans’s table. Hardly recognizable now.
Hamish said, catching him off guard, “He’s no’ the sort ye’d expect to find himself murdered.”
Rutledge was thinking much the same thing. He looked at the photograph again, wishing he’d had it with him when he’d spoken to the man in the shop or the narrowboat men, rather than a vague description. It had been too easy for them to deny having seen the victim.
Hamish disagreed. “If his death had to do with the narrowboats, no’ even a photograph would ha’ helped identify yon body. They keep themselves to themselves.”
And it was very likely true. He’d felt the resistance toward outsiders while he was there.
Donald came back across the room. “I need to know—what’s to be done about bringing him home? She’ll want him buried here, not in Wales. I dread to think what it will cost, but I’ll find the money. God knows, I’ve done what I can to keep the pub going.”
“I’ll put you in touch with a Dr. Evans. He will help you make the necessary arrangements. There will be certain—formalities, of course.” He wasn’t ready to discuss an inquest with Blake, and so he gestured to the mining theme. “Was there a mine near here? Is that why there’re so many photographs about?”
“There was. A lead mine. Well, two of them. The smaller one has been closed for years. They’d shut down the larger operation too, then opened it up during the war. There’s talk it could be closed permanently in the next year or so. Bad for business here, of course. The uncertainty.” He glanced toward the frames on the wall. “Ruthie’s father put those up. I expect he could put a name to every face. During the war there were German prisoners working The Bog. They weren’t allowed up here, and business fell off sharp with the lads away fighting. Come to that, we’ve not had all that much custom since. Not the way it once was when Ruthie’s father was alive.”
Rutledge made certain the women were occupied, and then said, “I need to examine Milford’s wardrobe. Although Mrs. Milford confirmed that the clothes the dead man was wearing were indeed the ones she’d given him, I want to be very sure that her memory is accurate. This might be the best time to go to the house.”
Blake hesitated. “I must ask Ruthie. It’s her house, after all.”
“We don’t need to distress her more than we have already. My motorcar is outside, as you’ve seen.”
Blake reluctantly agreed, and the two men went out the side door.
The house was one of the handful of two-story dwellings. Even so, it was small. They went in through the kitchen door, Blake saying as they stepped inside, “We’ve never had call to lock our doors. This way.”
They went up the narrow main staircase. There were four very small rooms above, and Blake said as they passed the first door, “That was Ruthie’s mother’s room. She and Sam slept in this one.” He opened the door and stepped aside.
There was room for only a bed, two chairs, a tall chest, a smaller one with a mirror above it, and a nightstand. There was no armoire, just a curtain in one corner that set off the space where clothes hung on pegs. Rutledge looked through them, then said, “I see no shirts here.”
“In the chest, then?”
Rutledge crossed the room to pull out drawers one at a time. In the third he found Sam Milford’s shirts. He lifted them out, took them to the bed, and carefully went through them.
None of them had the Banner mark in their collars.
Satisfied, and feeling claustrophobic in the small space, Rutledge nodded to Blake. “Thank you. But it was necessary to be sure.”
“I don’t see why those shirts were so important,” Blake said as they went back down the stairs and out to the motorcar. “They look just like all the rest he’s ever worn. Sam liked nice shirts, and it wasn’t vanity.” He searched for the right word. “He took pride in his appearance. And Ruth knew how to starch them.” There was almost a touch of envy. “Nan never could quite get it right.”
But Banner’s mark wasn’t visible when Milford was wearing the Llangollen shirt. Blake had probably never seen it.
“It’s a matter of thoroughness. I’m sure Mrs. Milford would be relieved to discover we’d made a mistake.” But he knew now that he hadn’t been wrong.
They returned to the pub in silence. The wind had picked up, and overhead the stars were brilliant in the cold night sky. Rutledge had watched them spin across the horizon countless nights in the trenches, waiting for the next attack or still on edge from the last one. He looked back at the road as they went up the rise.
“Why was the Milford house called The Mill?” he asked.
“The Mill? There’s no mill in Crowley. Who told you that?”
Rutledge let it go. Mrs. Milford might not have wished to give Banner the address of the pub or even a cottage. Perhaps The Mill sounded more like the home of a woman placing a large order.
They had just walked through the side door when they met Ruth and Nan coming toward them.
“I’m taking her home,” Nan said. “My house,” she amended. “She needs to be in bed with a hot water bottle and a little whisky to help her sleep.”
“Yes, that’s for the best,” Rutledge agreed. “I will need to talk to her in the morning, when she’s a little stronger.”
Donald regarded him. “Here. Were you thinking of staying the night in the inn?”
“I believe there are rooms,” Rutledge replied as Hamish said quietly, “’Ware.” For there was something menacing now about Nan’s husband.
“Best to move on,” he said. “You’ve done what you came for. You can give me that doctor’s name and where he’s to be found. Nan and I’ll see to Ruthie. There’ve been rats in the bedrooms. They’re closed for the rat catcher to come. That’s what sickened Will. The rats. There’s a good inn two villages on. The train comes in there.”
“Donald—” Ruth began, but he ignored her.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Rutledge replied. “But this isn’t finished. I’ll take my chances with the rats.” There had been colonies of them in the trenches.
Ruth Milford said, wearily, “Donald doesn’t want it to be Sam. Any more than I do. But it must be—he was wearing my shirt. The one I had made up for him when he came home.”
“You can’t be sure—” Blake said sharply.
“I can. I ordered it from a tailor. As a surprise. And no, it was my own money, it didn’t come from the pub.” To Rutledge she added, “Nan and Donald want to sell up and move away from here. Sam and I wanted to stay, I was hoping to buy them out, but they can’t leave me now, not to run the pub on my own. Not if Sam is dead.” Something changed suddenly in her face, and she went on with rising alarm, “Was—was Sam alone when he died? Was anyone with him?” It was the second time she’d asked. Was it the lover in Llangollen she was worrying about?