“Why would anyone harm Sam? It makes no sense,” she went on, brushing a tendril of her dark red hair back into place. “I can’t get the thought of it out of my mind.”
Rutledge asked, “Do you know anyone in Llangollen, Mrs. Milford? Friends or family that your husband might have visited—perhaps to ask for help to keep the pub afloat?”
She flushed. “No. I don’t have any family in Wales.”
“Perhaps your husband has relatives there—or friends from the Bantams.”
“He wouldn’t leave Shrewsbury without telling me his plans. Don’t you see, you’ve upset our lives for nothing. Sam will be home today or tomorrow.”
But even as she said it, he could see that she only half believed any of it. It was a way of putting off the inevitable, putting off facing having to accept her husband’s death for a few more days.
“Mr. Banner—the tailor where you had clothes made up for your husband—saw you with another man. An officer, who waited for you outside the shop. And you told the tailor you were in the town to visit with friends.”
“He’s mistaken,” she said harshly. “How could he be sure of such a trivial thing as that? After all these years? He must have had dozens of people in and out of his shop since then.”
“Then why were you there?”
“I took a brief holiday. It was after my mother’s last illness. I was tired, upset, I needed to get away. Even for a few days. I went to school in Shrewsbury, I know people there, and I didn’t want to be reminded of my loss.”
“There are many towns closer than Llangollen. Why there?” he persisted.
“I told you, it was an escape,” she retorted, angry now. “Just an escape.”
He let it go, knowing she felt cornered and wasn’t likely to tell him more.
“I’ll need to speak to your family solicitor. Can you give me his direction?”
“He’s in Shrewsbury. Hastings and Hastings. Anyone can tell you how to find his chambers. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to be left alone.”
Shrewsbury was not that far away, less than twenty miles to the north of Crowley, and he made good time despite the state of the roads. The town had been built in a loop of the River Severn, making it almost an island. Walls were added to its defenses, and a castle guarded the only way in by land, but the great Norman abbey had been built outside that protected perimeter. Rutledge passed it on his way across the English Bridge.
He spent the first hour and a half canvassing the breweries there. Although it was Saturday, there was always someone in the office willing to speak to him. But none of them had seen Sam Milford in several weeks.
“Nigh on a month now,” one brewer told Rutledge. “Unlike him not to stop in when he’s here.”
At his last call—at the Old Salop Brewery, in Chester Street—Andrew Clark, the manager, was just leaving when Rutledge found the office. He was told that Milford had stopped by early one morning almost a fortnight ago, but on other business, nothing to do with the pub. Clark added, “He’d hoped to speak to my sister. She’s a patron of the local orphanage, and she was away last week, collecting a child from a farm east of here. Father dead, mother unable to carry on. Sad business. But Dora is up to it. She adores children, but has none of her own. Husband died on the Somme. Matthew Radley, that was. Fine man. Fine.”
“I’m sorry.”
Clark shrugged. “It’s my hope that she’ll find someone and marry again. But she won’t even consider it.”
“In her own time, perhaps?”
“Yes, I expect so. But you’d think—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“Why was Milford interested in speaking to her?”
“He lost a child, you know. It’s been good for him, taking an interest in the little ones. And it’s been good for Dora too, I expect.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “But back to what brought you here, Mr. Rutledge. You might go to Crowley. Sam is sure to be home by now.”
Rutledge thanked him and left without telling him that Milford was dead. It served no purpose, Clark would learn of it soon enough, but he didn’t want the news running ahead of him before he’d finished his search.
He was halfway to the hotel where Milford usually stayed when he remembered.
Ruth Milford had said, It was about Tildy. It’s always about Tildy.
In spite of what Clark had told him—Dora, after all, was his sister—had Sam Milford had an affair with her? Drawn together by their love of children and their sense of loss? He for a child, she for her husband? Grief could create a strong bond that might change into love.
And that put a different perspective on Ruth Milford’s relationship with her husband. Still, he had died in Wales, a long way from Crowley.
Hamish said, “Aye—but there’s the officer who was wi’ her in Llangollen, and that’s no’ verra far from yon Aqueduct.”
“True enough.” He answered aloud, and then cursed himself. But would a man she hadn’t seen in several years kill for her? It was hard to believe, although in Rutledge’s experience at the Yard, stranger things had happened. Or had Ruth killed to be with him?
“Aye,” Hamish said, picking up on the thought, “so far, yon officer and yon tailor are the only connection between Llangollen and Crowley.”
How would the officer have recognized Milford? His size alone was not enough. Unless he knew when to expect Milford—and where he might be staying. But turn it around the other way. Milford had gone in search of the officer, and met his match, killed in self-defense . . .
Until he knew more about both men, he had to stay with the possibility that something from Milford’s past had caught up with him. After all, he hadn’t lived in Crowley most of his life. What, in fact, was in his past?
Rutledge found the hotel, rather forlorn on its shabby corner but with a fine view of the dark red stone towers of the once-great Abbey, now only a shadow of itself.
The young man at Reception smiled, thinking Rutledge had come to ask for a room.
Instead he showed his identification and said as he put it away again, “I’m looking for one Samuel Milford, from Crowley. I believe he has been staying here?”
Alarmed, the man said, “Here? Has he done something wrong?”
Rutledge smiled. “We hope he can help us with our inquiries.”
The man pulled the guest book from a drawer, nearly dropped it, and opened it at the place where a black ribbon marked the latest entries.
“He arrived on the Monday of the week before last, arranged for an early lunch on Tuesday—then he left straightaway, even though he’d booked his room for three days.”
“Did he meet anyone here at the hotel? Or has anyone called to speak with him?”
“I don’t believe so, but I’m on duty only during the day. Still, he was a quiet guest, no trouble at all, and he’s stayed with us before.”
“The lunch on Tuesday. Did he dine alone?”
“Yes. He booked a table for one. He was expecting a letter, I believe, and it arrived by messenger shortly after he came down from his room.”
“Who sent the letter, do you know?”
“I’m sorry—the messenger insisted on taking it to the dining room and handing it to Mr. Milford personally.”