Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

Rutledge, as keen an observer of human nature as Melinda Crawford, wondered if she had also set out to recapture a time far removed from war on this day of all days-as if she knew what was going through his mind. It was an extraordinary kindness.

He smiled and tried to remember that sunny afternoon for her sake, and succeeded in making her happy. Whether he had succeeded in convincing her that she had chased away all the dark shadows he couldn’t tell.

Hamish said, “I wouldna’ wager my pay on it.”

On his return to London on the evening of Wednesday, twelve November, Rutledge went directly to the Yard instead of his flat. At this hour, in a city the size of London, the police presence at the Yard was as strong as it was at midday, and he was greeted jovially as he strode down the passage to his office.

Sergeant Gibson, whose irascible manner concealed a very clever mind, said, “’Ware the wolf at the door!” as he passed.

And Inspector Raeburn paused to warn, “If you’ve come for peace and quiet, better leave now.”

Indeed, there was an air of orchestrated urgency about the place. Another inspector stopped long enough to say, “Old Bowels scents promotion. He’s been summoned to the Home Office tomorrow, possibly something to do with that rash of fires in Slough. They found a body when the ashes cooled this morning, and the hope is it’s the fire-setter, not a hapless victim. Seven firms have been burned out so far, and we’re frantically searching for a link connecting them.”

“You’ll find it soon enough,” Rutledge responded as he reached his office. With so many men out of work and wages very low as Britain tried to regain her capacity for peacetime industry, bitterness often turned to trouble, and labor disputes became volatile. Fire setting was not uncommon.

Hamish pointed out, referring to the Shaw investigation, “It isna’ a good time to bring up the past.”

It wasn’t. Rutledge shut his door against the mayhem and sat down at his desk. He had made notes from the Shaw file, and with luck there would be a few free hours in the morning to visit one or two of Mrs. Shaw’s neighbors. Discreetly.

He drew the sheets of paper out of his drawer and prepared to read through them again, seeking any missed clue. He had given himself two days to find a sense of perspective about the case. Instead, other emotions had driven it from his mind. And yet, with the commemoration of the Armistice safely behind him, almost as if turning a leaf in a mental book, he felt a return to a sense of balance.

Hamish, reflecting Rutledge’s tiredness from the drive out of Kent, doubted there would be anything worthwhile to be found in his notes. “For ye read them on Sunday, and you’re no’ so puir a policeman that you couldna’ see it was all trim and proper then.”

Still, Rutledge persevered.

But the pages were not in proper order. And an extraneous letter, an invitation to a retirement dinner for another officer, was in among them.

It had been lying on his blotter Sunday when he had walked out of the room. In plain sight.

He stared at the sheets in his hand, trying to remember how he had left them. Hamish was right about one thing-he wasn’t so poor a policeman that he would mix up his files like this. He had learned early on in his career that a meticulous attention to detail was essential to giving evidence in court. A muddled record of any investigation was a death knell-the defense would swoop down on the policeman like an eagle after prey, and tear him apart.

Pages two and five had been reversed. He sorted through them again. One. Five. Three. Four. Two. And just after five, that extraneous letter.

A thought struck him then. And with it came cold alarm.

Someone had been in his office and gone through his desk in his absence.

What had they been looking for? And in their search, had they taken note of this sheaf of pages-or simply set it aside while hunting for another file?

More to the point, what present inquiry of his was urgent enough that new information couldn’t wait three days for his return?

He thumbed through the copied notes again. He had nothing to hide. The original file had been returned to its cabinet, after he had abstracted the information he wanted. He had disturbed no one-he had left no particular trail.

In fact, he had simply tried to be circumspect, knowing Chief Superintendent Bowles would be the first to be annoyed by any resurrection of his own past-the inquiry that had begun his climb to his present position.

No. It wasn’t Bowles; there would be no reason for him to come to Rutledge’s office. If he’d needed a folder, he would have sent someone else to locate it.

And whoever it was, no doubt in a hurry, had sifted through the drawer’s contents with only one thing on his mind: satisfying Bowles.

Rutledge went through his entire desk with great care. As far as he could determine, nothing was missing. The files he was presently working on were as he’d left them. Whatever had been taken must also have been returned.

Coincidence.

It was the only explanation…

But neither he nor Hamish found it satisfactory.

The next morning Rutledge reported for duty, and then at midday, after a meeting ended earlier than expected, he found his way again to the street of soot-blackened houses where the Shaws had lived their entire married life. Winter sun splashed the roofs and walls, bringing out every flaw, like an aging woman who had ventured out too early into the merciless morning light. Even the mortar of the bricks seemed engrained with coal smoke, and in the windows, white lace curtains mocked it.

Number 14 was very like its neighbors, upright and lacking any individuality that would offer a hint about the occupants within. The iron knockers on several doors were Victorian whimsy, mass-produced rather than a reflection of personal taste. One house possessed an urn-shaped stone pot that had held pansies in the summer, their withered stems falling over the sides like a bedraggled veil, but most of the street seemed not to care about the image it presented. The white lace curtains were a last pitiful attempt at pride, but there was no money to spend on frivolous ornamentation.

Rutledge left his motorcar a block away and continued on foot, hoping to attract as little notice as possible. But now and again curtains twitched as the women of Sansom Street inspected the stranger with suspicion. He was as much an outsider here as he might have been on a street in Budapest-outsiders seldom brought anything but trouble. Particularly well-dressed ones with an air of authority.

He walked on to the end of the street where a church stood like a beacon, its early Victorian tower rising above the dingy roofs. The door needed paint, and the stained-glass windows were grimy, but when Rutledge stepped inside and opened the door to the nave, he was surprised to find the interior as bright and polished as any church in Westminster. His footsteps echoed on the flagstone as he walked down the aisle, and something large and black rose like a goblin from the chairs below the pulpit.

A scarecrow of a man, his robes flapping and his face flushed, called, “Good morning! Is there any way I can help you?”

The rector rose to his full height, a feather duster in his bony hand and a cobweb across his chest like a lace collar. His white hair, in disarray, looked like a ruff. The smile was genuine, if wry.

Rutledge said, gesturing around him, “This is truly a sanctuary.”

“Well, yes, we try to manage that. My wife had a committee meeting this morning, and I’m frightfully poor at dusting, but one tries.” He paused. “What brings you to St. Agnes?”

“Curiosity, I suppose,” Rutledge said slowly. “I understand you buried a parishioner not long ago. A Mrs. Cutter, Janet Cutter.” It was a guess, and apparently on the mark.