Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford Read Free

again, the gutters running with rainwater, and in spite of his umbrella, his shoulders were nearly wet through as he looked across the square at the now-dark Lowery residence.
    “What could they want?” Dunstan asked, pacing restlessly. “I have tried to think of anything, anything at all, that would be worth taking Cecily in this way.”
    “Revenge. Money. Fear. There can be a long list of reasons. Did your wife live in Canada?”
    “For a time, yes. Her father was sent out there by his firm. He was a mining engineer. He told me once that if he’d been clever, he might have discovered for himself the gold that later started the famous Gold Rush in the Yukon. Instead, he was looking for other minerals.”
    “Did he own property in Canada?”
    “A shooting camp in the woods. He sometimes went there with friends. My wife inherited it, but neither of us has ever been there. Her brother often uses it without asking, but I never pursued the matter. It was the principle that irritated me, that he felt he should have inherited it and behaved as if it were indeed his.”
    “Why your wife, if it was a shooting camp?” Rutledge asked as they crossed the square.
    “I expect it was because her father never really liked Elston. He was a troublesome child and grew into a troublesome man.”
    They had reached the Lowery house. Rutledge knocked, but it was several minutes before the door opened. A thin, balding man stood there in his dressing gown. His brows rose in surprise.
    “I say, Dunstan.” His glance moved on to Rutledge.
    “Andrew, Cecily has been kidnapped,” Dunstan said before Rutledge could speak. “We’re trying to find her.”
    “May we come in?” Rutledge asked.
    Lowery stepped to one side. “Yes, of course. Are you serious, Dunstan? Cecily? What in God’s name has happened?” He led them into the drawing room and lit the lamp. “I don’t understand.”
    “How many people knew you’d invited Mr. Dunstan and his daughter to dinner?”
    “How many people? Good God, I have no idea. I never made a secret of it.” He looked up as his wife came into room. “My dear, it’s distressing news—something has happened to Cecily.”
    “But she was just here,” she exclaimed. “I don’t understand.” She was a fair woman, attractive and slim.
    Dunstan told her what had happened. “And we’ve just found the cabbie, across the square. He’s on his way to hospital. The police haven’t been able to question him.”
    Mrs. Lowery’s gaze moved to Rutledge’s face. “But the Yard is doing everything that’s possible, surely!”
    “Can you give me a list of the other guests this evening?” he asked. “And tell me whether they left before or after Dunstan and his daughter?”
    “But of course.” She went to the small desk by the door and sat down to write.
    Rutledge said, “The Dunstan house was ransacked. Whoever took Cecily Dunstan didn’t find what he was looking for there, nor on Mr. Dunstan’s person. That could well explain why his daughter was taken.”
    “Holding her—but that’s diabolic!” Mrs. Lowery said. “Is it money?”
    “There have been no demands for ransom,” Dunstan said, the beginnings of panic in his voice.
    “Early days,” Rutledge pointed out. “They’ll wait until you are ready to do anything to retrieve your daughter.”
    “They needn’t wait. I’ve already reached that point,” Dunstan answered.
    Mrs. Lowery finished the list and passed it to Rutledge.
    There were two other couples and a single woman, Dunstan making up the numbers. Mr. and Mrs. Carson, Mr. and Mrs. Frey, and Miss Abernathy. Two men and three women. There had been three men in the attack on the Dunstans. If Carson and Frey were involved, then Lowery himself would have had to be a party to the kidnapping of Cecily Dunstan. Was Dunstan mistaken or had he lied about his attackers? Or were those three men unconnected with the dinner party?
    “The Carsons are old friends,” Mrs. Lowery was