Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

Tea with Melinda Crawford was typical.

She was in great spirits and refused to allow her guests to enjoy anything less. She chided Elizabeth for bringing a pot of honey, saying, “You know I’m not allowed to indulge in such things.” But the expression of delight in her eyes told them that she would enjoy it hugely.

Turning to Rutledge, she said, “Growing old is not for most people. It’s too trying. One daren’t eat this or do that, or even bend over to smell the garden flowers, for fear one’s back won’t straighten up again.”

“You seem to thrive on it, all the same,” he told her.

“Well, it’s most certainly better than the alternative.”

He looked around the room, found it unchanged from his last visit before going off to war. There were the personal possessions she’d brought home from India with her, beautiful carvings and silks, sandalwood fans that scented the warm air, and a small teak curio cabinet with ivory inlays, where she always kept smaller treasures. They were as fascinating as the stories she told about them.

It was, in a way, like stepping back into his own past, and he found it unexpectedly soothing.

She rang a little bell at her elbow, and tea appeared like magic, a wheeled cart with a silver service, fine china, and from somewhere, a single yellow rose. She had remembered that Rutledge liked cake, and had ordered two kinds, one with a lemon filling and the other with raisins.

Elizabeth was asked to pour, and as she passed a cup to Rutledge, Mrs. Crawford said, “You met Tom Brereton the other night at the Hamiltons. What did you think of him?”

Rutledge replied, “Sound enough. A friend, I take it, of Mr. and Mrs. Masters.”

“Brereton was to be Raleigh’s protege and read the law. A brilliant future ahead of him. The war put a stop to that.”

Elizabeth said, “He’s nice. We had lunch one day, when he came into Marling to see the doctor. He regaled me with tales about the American Expeditionary forces. He’s a wonderful mimic.”

“I was thinking,” Mrs. Crawford said, “of leaving him something in my will. His life won’t be easy if he loses his sight.” She smiled. “Of course, it could be a long wait; I’m not in the mood to shuffle off my mortal coil. All the same, it would please me to help someone in need. Brereton doesn’t have a great deal of money, and independence when one is blind is important.”

“It would be a kindness, certainly,” Elizabeth said. “But do you know him well enough? Can you be sure it’s for the best?”

“I intend to know him better before making a final decision. But Ian here is a good judge of character. I’d like him to keep my notion in the back of his mind.”

Which, Rutledge thought, was a veiled suggestion that he use his resources at the Yard to verify Brereton’s worthiness. But why had she chosen to speak of this in front of Elizabeth?

The answer followed on the heels of the thought.

Elizabeth said, “Richard knew his family, of course. Tom’s grandfather served in India at one time. Did you ever meet him out there?”

Mrs. Crawford set her teacup on the tray. “We danced a waltz together in Agra. I was all of twelve, and terribly in love. He was quite dashing in his uniform.” But Rutledge had the strongest feeling that she was not telling the entire story.

As they finished their tea and he dutifully ate the last of the raisin cake, Mrs. Crawford turned to Elizabeth. “My dear, will you go up to my room and fetch the small box you’ll find on the desk there? I don’t like to ask Shanta to do it. Her bones are older than mine!”

Shanta was the Indian ayah who had become the housekeeper, much to the shock of the neighbors. She ruled the household with an iron hand, reminding recalcitrant staff that even the Dear Queen had had an Indian servant, and that Mrs. Crawford was following royal tradition. Rutledge wondered at times how Mrs. Crawford kept any servants at all, but they seemed to adore her and seldom left until they were carried out in their coffins.

As the door closed behind Elizabeth, Melinda Crawford turned to Rutledge and asked, “What is troubling you? That silly girl who turned you down for a diplomat?” She was referring to Jean, who had once been engaged to Rutledge and broke it off when he came home shell-shocked.

“No. Besides, she’s off to Canada with him.”

“Well, I hope he’s worthy of her-most diplomats are as shallow as she is.”

Rutledge laughed. Mrs. Crawford was nothing if not partisan when she cared for someone.

“Then it’s something else? Scotland? I had a long letter from your godfather. He’s been worried about you. He says the war has changed you. Well, war has changed us all, come to that. But you more than most, I think. It isn’t physical. I can count all your limbs. Therefore they must be in the mind, these wounds of yours. Too many bad memories? Or bad dreams?”

“A little of both,” he answered ruefully. “It will pass.” He had feared she would be able to see too clearly. He had been right.

“My dear, I lived through the Great Mutiny, when we all expected to die, and most unpleasantly. I’ve seen things no woman ought to see. No, nor a man either. It does not pass. One just grows-accustomed to it. One learns to crowd it out and put it into the farthest corner of one’s mind.”

He couldn’t explain to her that Hamish already lived there. “I try,” he said.

“You’re young. And a remarkably attractive man, did you know that? It’s time you married, had a family, and looked forward.”

“Elizabeth?” he asked, wondering if that was why Mrs. Crawford had sent her out of the room.

But Melinda Crawford shook her head, frowning. “No, Elizabeth isn’t right for you, my dear, and I hope you have no thoughts in that direction. Besides-I rather think her fancy lies elsewhere.”

His eyebrows flew up in surprise. Was that what had been on the tip of Elizabeth’s tongue at breakfast that morning, before the news of another murder had spoiled the chance to speak to him? He wondered. Bella Masters had also hinted at other attachments.

Watching his face, Melinda Crawford nodded in satisfaction. As if pleased to discover no attachment here. He knew she was fond of Elizabeth, and was amused.

Still, he was slow answering, unable to tell her why he could never offer marriage to any woman. How would she -could she-share his life with Hamish?

Then, hearing footsteps coming down the stairs, his hostess said in a low voice, rapidly and with an intensity that was unlike her, “Remember one thing, Ian. I have seen war at its worst. Nothing you can tell me will shock me or disturb me. If you ever find you need to talk about things best forgotten, I shall be here. For a time, at least. Don’t leave it too long!”

THE BOX, INLAID marble, contained photographs of a garden party Mrs. Crawford had given nearly thirty years ago, and Rutledge recognized his parents among the faces, his father stooping over his mother with loving attention as he brought a plate of food to her table. His sister Frances, in a trailing lacy gown that all but swallowed her, stared at the camera with sober curiosity. Richard was there, a fair smiling child with girlish curls to his shoulders, his pose already exhibiting that sturdy, masculine grace that had made him a natural athlete and one of the finest cricket bowlers in Kent. Rutledge sat astride a pony, his shoes dangling high above the stirrups, his face half hidden by a pith helmet tipped over one eye. Mrs. Crawford, in an elegant hat that was a froth of ostrich feathers, was surreptitiously gripping his belt to keep him safely in the saddle.

It was typical of her to have planned an afternoon that would please both her guests. Elizabeth was poring over the photographs with exclamations of delight.