Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

“I thought you might like the poet. O. A. Manning.”

“She’s dead now, I’ve heard.”

He answered simply, “Yes.”

“A tragedy among so many tragedies. There’s never time to mourn. I remember in India there were so many burials we couldn’t cry anymore. It was almost the same here, after this war. And you’re back at the Yard, I’ve heard that as well. You forgot my birthday this year.”

“I didn’t forget. I didn’t know what you would have liked. Frances sent a gift from both of us. Nightgowns suitable for a queen, if I have it right. Silk, in fact, from the East. Appropriate, she felt.”

“Very beautiful,” Melinda Crawford agreed. “Most of all, I would have liked your company for a few hours. But then I’m selfish, aren’t I, when so many people are being murdered these days.” Her eyes twinkled, but there was an undercurrent of sorrow behind the words.

The aging face was serene, and told him nothing. But he had a glimpse, brief as a butterfly’s touch, of the loneliness of this extraordinary woman.

She would not have wanted him to see it.

Before he could answer, the door opened, and a man and woman came in, followed by a young man of perhaps thirty.

Lawrence made introductions, and Rutledge studied Raleigh Masters. The barrister had been heavyset. Now his jowls drooped like a bloodhound’s and his clothes fit rather too loosely. His brown hair was streaked with gray and his frame was a little stooped, although that might have been from the crutches under his arm.

He swung into the room, a powerful man still, and undaunted, it seemed, by his infirmities. “Hallo, Mrs. Crawford, good to see you again, my dear. Forgive me for not shaking hands, Mr. Rutledge, but I have not yet learned the knack of these sticks.”

His wife came to greet Melinda Crawford, and then spoke to Rutledge in a breathless rush. “Down from London, are you? How very nice!”

Bella Masters seemed to possess a rather diffident nature, and her face was worn with worry, as if she slept poorly. But there was an underlying attractiveness there, and a strength, if Rutledge was not mistaken, that was the last defense against her own weakness.

Lydia and Elizabeth returned to greet the newcomers, and Bella went on in that breathless way, “We are so sorry to be late-the weather was very bad just past Hever.”

“Nonsense!” her husband retorted, adjusting his sticks as he sat down heavily into a chair. “I could see perfectly well!”

Bella glanced apologetically at the young man-who must have been driving them-but he ignored the remark and came to speak to Mrs. Crawford and then Rutledge.

Lawrence Hamilton had introduced him as Tom Brereton, and he said now to Rutledge, “Did I hear Mr. Hamilton correctly? You’re an inspector?”

“Yes. Scotland Yard.”

“Then you’re here on duty?”

“Actually, I’m on leave.”

Brereton nodded. “I believe Lawrence said you are a friend of Mrs. Mayhew’s?”

“Yes. I’ve known her for some years. Richard and I were at Oxford together.”

“I met her in hospital during the war. She read wonderfully well-it was rather like hearing a play. Everyone came to listen. I never had the good fortune to know her husband. They tell me he was an excellent barrister. I was interested in the law at one time, but my eyesight isn’t what it was.” Brereton smiled wryly. “Shrapnel. They did what they could, but I won’t be studying long hours anymore.”

“Yet you drive.” It was a typical policeman’s response, as Hamish was pointing out.

“Oh, yes, I can manage. Now. But they tell me a great many more motorcars will be on the road in the next year or so. That might make a difference.” He shrugged. “I know Kent fairly well. It helps.”

Mrs. Crawford was chatting with Lydia, and Brereton continued in a lowered voice, “She’s a truly amazing woman. Did you know she’d been at Lucknow? During the Mutiny? I can’t quite comprehend it. 1857, that was!”

Rutledge responded, “She has several interesting souvenirs, including one of the greased paper cartridges that sparked the Mutiny. And the ball that passed through her skirts one afternoon, as she carried water to the wounded. Her mother nearly fainted at the news-young Melinda was supposedly taking a nap.”

Brereton smiled. “I can believe the story. My grandmother told me once that Mrs. Crawford had been quite a heroine. But she denies it.”

At dinner, they were well into their soup before Masters looked up from his spoon and said, “Mrs. Crawford. I’m told mulligatawny soup is an old Indian specialty.”

“I shouldn’t know, Mr. Masters. I’ve never been in a kitchen in my life.”

Rutledge nearly swallowed his soup the wrong way. But Masters took her at her word, and grunted. “Well, I’ve never been one for foreign dishes. Although they tell me the French cook surprisingly well.”

Bella Masters turned to stare at her husband, and Rutledge caught a shadow of fright in her eyes. Searching in her pocket she found a small vial of powder, and asked the maid for a glass of water. After mixing the two, she handed the glass down to her husband, on the other side of Elizabeth.

Masters shook his head, and finished the course without saying more, but over the roast of beef, he turned to Rutledge and asked, “Are you here, Inspector, in an official capacity?”

“No, fortunately. I’m on leave and have come down to visit friends.”

“Hmm. If the Yard knew what it was about, you’d be looking into these murders of ours.” It was said with a proprietary air, as if they were his own.

Bella said, “I don’t think we ought to discuss here-”

“Nonsense,” her husband interrupted. “They’re the talk of the district. You can hardly step into a shop without hearing the whispers!”

“All the same,” Melinda Crawford put in firmly, “it can wait until the ladies have withdrawn. Elizabeth, I hear you’ve been blessed with puppies. How many did Henrietta produce?”

“Five,” Elizabeth answered, as Masters said something under his breath. “Would you like one of them? Unless Ian intends to speak up, you have first choice.”

“I’m afraid not; there’s no garden for a dog at my flat,” Rutledge replied. “Let Mrs. Crawford have her pick.”

Lydia said, “The children would love one, don’t you think, Lawrence?”

“Or two, perhaps. They’ll be squabbling constantly over just one,” Hamilton drawled, in mock enthusiasm.

Brereton laughed. “I’ll take one of them, Mrs. Mayhew. I’ve got a small house, but the garden is walled. A dog should be quite happy there.”

Masters glared at Brereton. “You’re not taking it home in my motorcar!”

Elizabeth interposed soothingly, “Their eyes are barely open. It will be weeks before they can leave their mother.”

Bella nodded to her husband’s glass. The powder was settling to the bottom, no longer in suspension. “Do drink your medicine, my dear. It’s long past time for it!”

Masters grudgingly picked up the glass, swirled it irritably, and swallowed half of it with a grimace. “I daresay it could be poison, for all I know. But I trust you, my love.”

She seemed to shrivel before his glare. “It was the doctor who ordered it, Raleigh. Hardly poison!”

Lydia signaled the maid to remove the dishes. “Well,” she said brightly, “have you heard the gossip? That house on the other side of the church has been bought by someone from Leeds! He made his money in scrap iron during the war, or so they tell me…”

The conversation moved on smoothly, and Bella thanked Lydia with her eyes. The powder, whatever it was, seemed to shift her husband’s mood, and he joined with good humor in the speculation over the newcomer and what effect he might have on village affairs.