“We don’t know. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, his coat slipping from her shoulders. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Surely—”
“Ruthie—” Nan cut across her words.
“So far, we haven’t found anyone who witnessed his fall. And until we do, we can’t be sure whether he was alone at the time or not.”
Her face drained of what little color it had had. “I’ll want to know. You must tell me, as soon as you know.”
“I promise,” he told her and retrieved his coat.
And Nan led her to the door.
Rutledge watched her go. “Is it far? I can drive them,” he said to Blake.
“No.”
“Then show me my room.”
Blake opened his mouth to argue again, thought better of it, and turned toward the far side of the bar, where a door opened onto a staircase.
They went up together, and Rutledge took the larger of the two rooms he was shown. Blake was about to leave him, but he asked, “I didn’t want to press Mrs. Milford. But she said something earlier that I didn’t understand. That it was about someone. Tildy?”
Blake shook his head. “Best you ask Nan tomorrow.” And he was off down the stairs before Rutledge could reply.
There were no rats in the night. But Hamish was waiting in the dark when Rutledge had retrieved his valise from the motorcar, undressed, and turned out the single lamp on the table by his bed.
He was dressed and sitting in the bar working on his notes when Nan Blake came in with a tray with his breakfast on it.
“Good morning,” he greeted her, rising. “That’s very thoughtful of you. How is your cousin this morning?”
“She’s still sleeping. There were some powders left over when her mother was ill. I gave her one. It was the only way she could rest.” She began to lay out his food on the next table, away from his notebook and pen.
“I’m glad you’re here. I need to ask a few questions that might upset her. For one,” he went on before she could object, “I was told that everyone thought Milford was in Shrewsbury. How did he go there and when?”
“There are trains to Shrewsbury, two villages over. Donald took him in the dogcart.”
“Was he wearing a heavy outer coat? A hat?”
She glared at him. “Of course he was.”
“And he was carrying a valise?”
“Brown calf.”
But none of these things had been found—neither hat, coat, nor valise.
“When did he leave?”
“Monday last.”
That was almost two weeks ago, now. Time enough to reach the Telford Aqueduct.
“And you are quite certain he went to Shrewsbury?”
“Of course he did,” Nan snapped. “Sam wasn’t a liar. If he told us he was going to Shrewsbury, then he did.”
“He had business there?”
She answered him defensively. “There have been—issues—with our vendors. Well, credit issues, if you must know. He was hoping to persuade them that in the spring, custom here will pick up. There are attractions here—the Long Mynd, the Stiperstones, the ruins of the lead mine, and its village. There have been stories that the mine is haunted. And there’s the Devil’s Chair on the Stiperstones. People already come to Long Mynd. It’s not that far away.”
“Was he meeting anyone in particular in Shrewsbury?”
“No. Only with the bank and the brewery people. The shops we buy from. To be fair, Donald does it too, he’s been such a brick, and he’s even gone away to find work to help us when money was short. But there’s something about Sam that reassures people.” Her voice caught. “Reassured them. He could persuade them that the pub could go on for a long time.” And then, rounding on him, she made it plain why she had brought his breakfast. And it clearly wasn’t out of kindness.
Standing before him, arms akimbo, she went on in a flat tone of voice. “You might tell Ruthie that Sam Milford fell down a Welsh mountain, where he had no reason to be in the first place. But I don’t believe a word of that. I want the truth, or Scotland Yard or not, I’m sending Donald for the Constable.”
And so he told her. About the Telford Aqueduct, about the boy finding the body, about the condition of the dead man. He told her about the shirt and about the tattoo and what he could read in the ravaged face. But not about the officer with Ruth.
“Once I saw the photograph, I could accept the very real possibility that the man in Dr. Evans’s surgery is Samuel Milford. I didn’t lie to your cousin. I told her the truth. Just not all of it. She was barely able to take in his death. I expected to give her the rest of the account today.”
Nan sat ungracefully into the nearest chair, pale enough that he thought for a moment that she was going to faint or be quite sick.
“Dear God,” she said finally, bringing herself to look at him for the first time since he’d given her the details. All he’d withheld was Banner’s account of the tall officer who had waited outside the tailor shop while Ruth Milford ordered a suit of clothes for her husband. That, he thought, was something he would ask Ruth Milford about when they were alone.
He said nothing, letting her absorb the shock. Then she whispered, almost to herself, “He’s been dead a week? How did we not know? Not feel something was wrong?” She took a deep, unsteady breath, trying to rally, turning on him again. “If you tell my cousin how badly Sam was injured—how he must have died—you’ll answer to me. There will be no open coffin by the time we can bury him. She can think of him in there as she knew him when he left here on Monday last. He’ll want to be buried in his uniform. It’s in a chest under his bed. I’ll find it and press it properly. You can take it back with you to this Dr. Evans, and see that the undertakers have it.”
“I will agree to that, if you’ll tell me why Mrs. Milford felt that she was to blame for her husband’s death. Had they quarreled? Did she feel that she had driven him to leave by something she’d done?”
“To blame? No, of course not, she did nothing of the sort.” She was indignant now, and yet as she continued, he had the feeling that she was choosing her words carefully. “She’s had a very—unhappy life. Not in her marriage, mind you. Sam made her very happy. But she feels that her own troubles have spilled over on her family. That Sam must have died because she did love him so much. That we’ve all been through all manner of hardships because she wants to keep the pub in the family. Donald wants better opportunities—you can’t blame him, he didn’t grow up in Crowley. He doesn’t have the same feeling about it. But now Sam is gone—” She shrugged, unable to finish the sentence. “We’ll grow old and die here, like her mum and dad. But that’s because the lead mine is closing. It isn’t because of Ruthie.”
“Do you know anyone who might wish Sam Milford harm? Who might wish to see him dead?”
Her gaze focused on his face, a frown forming between her brown eyes. “What are you asking me?”
“We found his body, but we didn’t find his hat or his winter coat or his valise. The question is, where are they? Why did he go to Wales, if he had told you he was only going as far as Shrewsbury? What happened in Shrewsbury? Why did he leave there?”