Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

“Cutter liked Mrs. Shaw. Why, I can’t tell you. And I won’t guess. But the odd thing was, she was very different in his company than she was ordinarily. Mary-my wife-even spoke of it, a time or two.”

Hamish said, “Leave it, and speak to Mrs. Bailey…”

For once Rutledge agreed. He asked a final question, clearing up another possible direction, as he stood to bring the interview to an end. “Did Mrs. Cutter visit the poor or the infirm, as part of her duties as a member of this church?”

“Most of the women have served on committees to visit those who are no longer able to come to services. It’s considered a Christian duty. Again, Mary would know more about that. She has served on most of the women’s committees-the duty of a churchman’s wife.”

Rutledge thanked him and left. He found the rectory just around the corner on a side street, a fresh coat of paint on the door setting it apart from its neighbors. Mrs. Bailey answered his knock, drying her hands on her apron. “If you’re looking for my husband, you’ll find him in the church office, this time of the morning.”

She was a slim woman-some would say bony-with still-fair hair and a smooth face, though her throat and hands gave her true age away.

Rutledge smiled, and replied, “My name is Rutledge. I’ve just spoken with Mr. Bailey, and he suggested I might do better to ask you the questions I’m trying to answer.”

“Rutledge-” She repeated the name thoughtfully. “We never met at the time, but you must be the policeman who was assigned to the Shaw inquiry.” Nodding as she placed him, she said, “My granddaughter told me you were a very fine-looking man, for a policeman. She was eight at the time, and murder had very little meaning for her, thank heavens.”

He could feel himself turning red. Mary Bailey smiled. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid I never mind my tongue as I should. In a clergyman’s wife, it’s a dreadful sin! But I’ve found over the years that if I attach one interesting fact to someone, I can keep a face and a name in my memory forever. Helpful when everyone expects the rector’s wife to know exactly who they are and how important they might be.”

She invited him into the kitchen, where she was making bread. The scents of warm yeast and rising dough were comforting. Her hands, moving almost without direction, began to knead the ball in the bed of flour.

“This won’t wait,” she explained, “and I’m sure your questions won’t, either. What do you need to know? Has someone else in our parish been involved with the Yard?” It was as if she had someone in mind, he thought, and was fishing.

“No, just an odd coincidence that occurred some days ago, and when it was brought to my attention, I wanted to put it to rest. A piece of the jewelry missing at the time of the Shaw murders has come to light. I’m trying to find out what-if any-significance that might have.”

She studied him, her blue eyes reading more than he was comfortable with. “And as the inspector involved, you want to know if this changes anything that-happened.”

“In a word-yes,” he replied.

Nodding, she kept her eyes on her hands now. “Yes. Well. What is it you want to know?”

He began indirectly. “Mrs. Shaw. Did she serve on any of the women’s committees? Visiting the ill, the poor?”

“She didn’t attend services here after her marriage. But she was never comfortable with that sort of need. I called on her once to ask if she might know of anyone looking to be a companion to an elderly man recovering from a leg fracture. I thought at the time it might mean an extra bit of money for her, if she could use it. But she was clear on that point, as well as her dislike of dealing with the infirm.”

“Her neighbor, Mrs. Cutter…”

“Was very active, until her health broke. We could always depend on Janet Cutter. And she was a very good cook, as well. She’d often bake a little extra and put it in a basket to take to someone under the weather. Still, Janet kept to herself, you know, she wasn’t one to sit and gossip. I put it down to shyness. But she seemed to have a kind heart.”

“And fingers that stuck to bits of jewelry?” Hamish asked.

“Mr. Cutter was one of the few people who defended Mrs. Shaw when we were closing in on her husband. He thought she was a very different person from the general impression of her. His wife, on the other hand, was not as kind.”

“Mrs. Shaw was never a very pretty woman, but she has a very bold and defiant way about her.” Mrs. Bailey added more flour to the bowl. “Some men like that.”

Rutledge tried to picture Mrs. Shaw flirting, and failed. He said as much.

Mrs. Bailey laughed. “I never suggested she was flirting. But her manner was bold. She could manage tradesmen very well, she could take charge of a situation and deal with it, she was unflappable. If the butcher overcharged her or brought her a less than satisfactory bit of beef, she would face him down without embarrassment or tears. ‘Now see here, Mr. Whoever, I wasn’t born yesterday, and I know that that chicken is old, and if you don’t take it back, I shall complain to my neighbors about the poor service you’re offering these days!’?”

“How do you know this?” he asked, intrigued.

“Because,” she said, turning to face him, “the same tradesmen come to my door, and over the years, you hear things.” She dropped her voice a level and said in a brusque tone, “ ‘I fear Mrs. Shaw isn’t herself this week. She complained fiercely about my cabbages. I ask you, have you ever had reason to doubt my cabbages?’ It’s a way tradesmen have, to play one customer against another, and if I say, ‘Your cabbages have always been quite lovely,’ then the rest of his route hears that Mrs. Bailey at the rectory is particularly fond of his cabbages.”

“What did Ben Shaw think about Mrs. Cutter?”

“Ah, interesting you should ask that,” she murmured, giving the bread dough a good thumping. “I think -think, mind you, there’s no proof-that when he was younger and drinking more heavily, Henry Cutter was not above striking his wife when in his cups. Ben Shaw was not used to the world he married into and came to live in. He was sentimental, and rather nice. He would have been the knight in shining armor, if Janet Cutter had cried on his shoulder. Ready to take on her battles, but not to move into her bed, if you follow me.”

“And yet he was accused of smothering three elderly women,” Rutledge gently reminded her.

“As a policeman,” she reminded him in turn, “you are not easily fooled. Well, after nearly fifty years dealing with a church, one comes to understand politics, human nature, and human frailty in unexpected ways. The infirm are not always pleasant and clean and defenseless. They can be ill-tempered, nasty, and terribly cruel. Their rooms often smell of urine-soaked bedding, dirty bodies, and bits of stale food. They have bedsores and bad breath and suspicious natures. Their caretakers often abuse them, because they’re helpless, and because patience wears thin. The knight in shining armor come to nail up shingles and repair windows doesn’t last long, even if the first time he’d arrived in full array. This doesn’t excuse Ben Shaw, you understand-but it is important to realize how easily such a thing might have happened.”

Rutledge had not walked into the scenes of the crimes-Philip Nettle had done that. The women had long since been removed to the morgue, thin and small under their sheets, defenseless and pathetic. “You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that anyone might have killed them. A man. A woman. Not a monster.”

“What I found most unusual about the crimes was that anyone had killed the three women at all. Why not just randomly take what you like? A silver spoon here, a man’s pocket watch there.”