Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

“If he’s a bachelor, every woman within ten miles will be inviting him to dine, in hopes of marrying him off.” Laughter met his comment. “Ask Brereton, here. He’s never at a loss for a way to spend his evenings.”

Brereton answered, “If he’s a rich bachelor, he’ll have the edge. I’ll be forgotten in a day.”

“It’s a beautiful house,” Elizabeth commented. “I’m glad someone will live there again.” For Rutledge’s benefit she added, “The last of the family died of influenza a year ago-Oliver Hendricks. He always offered us the pick of his gardens for the church. Oliver lost both sons in the war, poor man. Richard knew both of them well.”

Rutledge himself remembered Walter and John Hendricks, but said nothing. What was there to say? Death had not played favorites…

It was after the ladies had withdrawn for tea and the port was being passed that Masters returned to the subject of murder.

“I can’t understand,” he demanded, “why the Yard hasn’t been more forward in this business. Two bodies in a matter of weeks!”

“I’m afraid I know nothing about the murders, sir,” Rutledge answered him.

“I wonder what you are about, then! To be giving officers leave when they ought to be doing their duty is the height of stupidity!”

“The Chief Constable-” Rutledge began, but was interrupted.

“I know the law, Inspector. I spent twenty-five years as a barrister, ten of them as K.C. My question is, why does no one take these murders seriously enough to put a stop to them!”

“That’s unfair,” Lawrence Hamilton put in. “You have to remember-”

“I remember only that invalided soldiers are dying, and no one seems to care,” Masters retorted. “When my mentor, Matthew Sunderland, was alive, he believed that there would come a time when murder was tolerated, as long as it inconvenienced no one but the victim. I daresay he’s being proved right.”

Rutledge’s attention swung back to Masters. Matthew Sunderland had been the King’s Counsel in the murder trial of Ben Shaw. Rutledge remembered him distinctly, a stooped and thin figure in his black robes, his voice and his manner patrician as he conducted the prosecution. Mr. Justice Patton had treated him with cordial respect, well deserved by a man who had served the law for nearly fifty years. Sunderland was seldom wrong when he cited a precedent, and young barristers lived in dread of facing him across the courtroom.

“It’s interesting that you knew Sunderland,” Rutledge said, shifting the subject to one he preferred to explore. “Do you recall the Shaw trial?”

“Why should I?” Masters countered.

“I wondered if Sunderland had ever spoken of it to you,” Rutledge returned mildly. “It received widespread publicity at the time.”

“Sunderland was always conscious of his duty,” Masters replied. “And convinced that he’d done his best. I never knew him to feel any doubt about the outcome of any trial.”

Hamish, in the shadows of Rutledge’s mind and quiet for most of the meal, spoke now.

“You didna’ ask him that…”

Masters, as if suddenly aware of the small glass with his medicine in it, stared at the remaining portion for a moment, swirled the contents again, and then drained it at one draught.

By the time Lawrence Hamilton had described a fraud trial in which he was involved, Masters’s chin was resting on his chest, and he was breathing heavily. Hamilton glanced at Rutledge. “I think it’s time to join the ladies. We’ll let him sleep, shall we? It’s happened before.”

Rutledge and Brereton quietly rose and followed their host to the drawing room. Bella Masters looked up quickly as they came in, and relief spread across her face as she saw that her husband was not with them.

“Is he sleeping?” she asked softly. When Hamilton nodded, she said only, “Well. It will do him good.” She had been sitting next to Mrs. Crawford, and now came to take a chair beside Rutledge. “I want to say,” she told him, smiling, “that it’s wonderful to see Elizabeth out and about again. It’s time she put the past aside. She’s one of my favorite people, you know.” A shadow passed over her face, and the smile faded. “Widowhood is something we all must learn to live with. God knows, every wife must look ahead to the possibility.”

“She’s a remarkable woman,” he agreed, wondering if Mrs. Masters was matchmaking.

But she surprised him by adding, her eyes straying to Brereton, sitting by Elizabeth now, “There’s someone-well, I may be speaking out of turn!”

“Someone?” Rutledge prompted, curious. Brereton, perhaps? Or was Mrs. Masters warning him-the houseguest-off on general principle?

“There’s a young man she’s had lunch with. A time or two. I’ve seen them in the window of The Plough.” The hotel on the High Street. “I hope it’s someone suitable-” A worried frown touched her face. He found himself thinking that Bella Masters wasn’t the sort who could prevaricate successfully. Her expressions were too easily read.

“I’ll bear it in mind,” he said, answering the concern rather than her actual words.

He spent perhaps another five minutes sitting with Mrs. Masters, and then was commandeered once again by Mrs. Crawford, who wanted to know what Frances, his sister, was thinking of, letting that handsome major slip through her fingers.

Rutledge laughed. “I rather think it was the other way round. Frances enjoyed his company, but was not in the right frame of mind to accept a proposal.”

Melinda Crawford said, “I do wish she would settle. She’s a very intelligent young woman, and your father spoiled her. She won’t find his like, and she should stop trying-before the better choices are snapped up.”

It was, Rutledge thought, a unique way of regarding his sister’s spinsterhood. He suddenly realized that he shared it. Caught up as he had been in his own problems, he had not stopped to consider why Frances was still unmarried. Had there been someone during the war-someone he had never known about, and she had not wanted to speak of?

A little more than a half an hour later, Rutledge and Elizabeth took their leave. Masters, rested and less belligerent, had departed with Brereton driving. Mrs. Crawford had gone a little before them, her chauffeur summoned from the kitchens where he’d been gossiping with the Hamilton staff. Lydia had carried Elizabeth off for a moment to review the Christmas flower schedule for church services, leaving the two men alone.

Hamilton said, apropos of nothing, “You said something earlier about the Shaw murders. What brought them to mind?”

“My chief superintendent,” Rutledge answered mildly. “He was promoted on the coattails of them. We aren’t allowed to forget that.”

“Our first cook was horribly shocked by the deaths, even though they occurred in London. I remember she refused to let a man into her cottage after that. She was convinced she’d die the same way. Dreadful to be old and fearful. I went myself a time or two to help nail up the back steps or whatever needed doing, and always took care that Lydia was with me.” He shook his head. “The poor woman died in her sleep, and wasn’t found for two days.”

“Did you know Matthew Sunderland at all?”

“I knew him to nod to, as we passed each other. I was too provincial and too young to have the courage to sit at the great man’s feet. Although, to do him justice, he was never as lofty as he appeared. But the man had a regalness about him, the white hair and his carriage. Someone, I forget who, compared Sunderland to General Gordon-that same charismatic belief in his own power.” Hamilton smiled. “To tell you the truth, I often wondered how many cases Sunderland carried just striding into the courtroom. And he had a voice to match, deep and impressive enough to read the Old Testament to savages. We won’t see his like again this century!”