Mrs. Warren lived in the sixth house with her brother. She hadn’t mentioned Tildy.
But Ruth Milford had last night. Several times . . .
And Blake had told Rutledge to speak to Nan. But there had been no opportunity at breakfast.
“Who is Tildy?” he asked, interrupting the flow of words more sharply than he’d intended.
“Her little daughter, of course.” As if he should know without asking. “Matilda. She was named after Ruth’s mother. Such a pretty little thing. Sam adored her, you could see that in the way he carried on about her. The apple of his eye, he said more than once. But that was Sam Milford for you, such a good father.”
Rutledge searched his memory. There had been no signs of a child in the Milford house . . .
“And what became of Tildy?”
“Didn’t Ruth tell you? But then she’d have been too upset about Sam dying like that, off in the wilds of Wales, where there was no one of his own with him as he drew his last breath? I can understand that—I expect I’ll be alone when my time comes. I’ve tried to accept that, but it’s hard.”
Ruth had also asked if Sam had been alone at the end—
“Was Tildy with him?” Rutledge asked. Then what had become of her? Why hadn’t they found a child wandering about without a parent?
It was a disturbing prospect.
“No. Oh, goodness, no. Didn’t anyone tell you? She lost Tildy almost a year ago. Such a tragedy that was. And the way it happened. I’m sure I don’t know how Ruth kept her sanity after that.”
A dead child, then.
“She blamed herself?” That might well explain why she believed she was at fault in her husband’s death as well.
“Oh, yes. Sam was distraught over Tildy, but he was trying to keep Ruth from killing herself in her anguish.”
“Literally killing herself?” he asked, frowning.
“I wouldn’t have been surprised. No, not at all. But she couldn’t eat nor sleep, nor find any peace. Like a wild soul, she was. I never saw anything like it. Donald and Nan, upset as they were, had to manage the pub without her or Sam. He sat by her, night after night, comforting her as best he could. I heard he feared she’d lose her reason. Do you have children, Inspector? No? Then you won’t know how they suffered. But I saw it, and I can tell you, it was pitiful. But then Tildy was so young. Only two and a half. How can anyone not grieve over such a dear little girl?”
He extricated himself from Mrs. Esterly’s house with some difficulty, spoke to the family in the last house in the village, then walked back to the pub.
Hamish was saying, “A wasted morning. Ye havena’ learned anything that would shed light on the dead man’s reasons for traveling to Wales.”
“I’ve learned enough about his character to wonder why he was pushed off the Aqueduct. Was there a side to Sam Milford that no one in Crowley saw?”
But there was no answer to that.
The pub was open when he got there, as the tall thin man by the name of Will had recovered sufficiently to take charge while Ruth and the Blakes grieved.
He looked up as Rutledge walked in. “The man from London?” he asked, as if there were dozens of strangers wandering about.
“Rutledge,” he answered, nodding.
“The cooker’s up. A cup of tea and maybe a sandwich?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He took off his coat, tossed it over the back of a chair, then sat down at the bar. “You were under the weather last night?”
“I get these thundering headaches sometimes. Even opening my eyes to the light makes me worse. I just lie in a dark room until the pain has passed.” He shrugged. “I haven’t had one since late February. Ruthie understands.” Bringing a cloth out from under the bar, he wiped at an invisible spot. “I can’t believe Sam is gone.”
“I’m told he went to Shrewsbury. About pub supplies.”
“Aye, the brewery was threatening to cut us off. What’s a pub without drink? I ask you!” He put the cloth away.
Commiserating, Rutledge smiled. “Not a happy place. But then I’m told that your custom has fallen off?”
“You’ve seen Crowley. How much can so few people drink? All the young ones have gone off to war and not come back. I was wounded outside Ypres—there’s a bit of brass in my back still. It causes terrible spasms. Doctor says it might be the reason for my headaches. Pressure on the spine.” He shook his head. “I’m one of the lucky ones, they tell me. I survived. But it’s hard to forget the war when one wrong move sets me off.”
“Live here, do you?” He’d stopped at every house, but he hadn’t seen Will. Only his aunt.
“My dad owns a farm outside Crowley. What I make here helps out my family there. When the mine was operating, neither my dad nor the pub could keep up, the demand was so great. All those miners? A hungry and thirsty lot.” With a nod, he went into the kitchen to fill Rutledge’s order.
He limped heavily. And Rutledge thought there was more than a bit of brass from a shell in his back. Very likely there had been a machine gunner’s bullet in his knee as well.
Following Will as far as the kitchen doorway, Rutledge asked, “Was there any other reason why Sam might have gone to Shrewsbury?”
“Not that I know of. He never mentioned any to me. But then I don’t understand why he was in Wales when he died. Are you sure the dead man is Sam?”
“Certain enough to ask questions.”
“I thought—Nan said you’d come to break the news.”
“A policeman always has questions. We aren’t sure ourselves what took him to Wales.”
Will grunted. “Knowing Sam, he was likely to be helping someone.”
“All the way to Wales?”
“All the same, I’ll wager that’s what’s happened.”
“Have you seen Mrs. Milford this morning?”
“She was in a while ago. To return the cellar keys. That’s when she told me. I was that shocked.”
“Then I’ll speak to her myself. Is she still staying with the Blakes?”
“I expect so.”
But when Rutledge got there, he discovered that Ruth had gone home. It was only next door. He walked across and knocked.
She came to open the door herself, pale and unsteady still, but more in command. “I’d hoped you’d gone,” she said, stepping aside to allow him to enter.
The front room was comfortable, but showed the lack of resources to keep it up. The carpet was worn in places, and the furnishings were of a style popular in King Edward’s day.
“I’ll be leaving shortly. For Shrewsbury. I’m taking your husband’s photograph with me, but I’ll return it as soon as possible.”
“I wish you wouldn’t take it.” She didn’t ask him to sit. “Nan told me—you believe Sam didn’t fall by accident. You believe he was murdered.” He could see the hurt in her eyes as she took a deep breath. “You’ve got it all wrong, you know. That isn’t Sam in Wales. When you look at him again, you’ll see that. It’s the only reason I am willing to let his photograph out of my sight.”
He didn’t argue with her. Instead he promised, “I’ll see that nothing happens to it.”