Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

And then the glove smoother said hesitantly, “You know, young Peter Webber might have seen who it was that did it.”

Webber was the name of the second victim.

“He’s only eight!” the woman in spectacles protested.

“He’s got eyes, hasn’t he?” was the retort. “He said something to me at the funeral. He said there’d been a man on the road the night before it happened, asking for his father. When Peter replied that he was working over to Seelyham, the man asked what regiment he’d been in, and where he’d fought. Odd sort of thing to ask.”

“They’d all fought together!” the first woman replied. “Everyone knows that. They’d tried to stay together, the men from Marling and Helford and Seelyham. Looking out for each other.”

Rutledge had finished his tea and the thick wedges of egg salad sandwiches. But he poured himself a second cup, his attention on the table of women. Hamish, listening as well, murmured, “Ye must find the Webber boy!”

“Didn’t do them much good, did it, serving together?” the woman wearing spectacles wanted to know. “My Fred says they lost more because of that.”

The first speaker, the one with her back to Rutledge, said soothingly, “I wouldn’t give young Peter’s words any weight. Like as not he means well, but my guess is, he’s hoping for a little attention. No need to upset his mother again.”

There was agreement at the table, and then the feathered hat said, “We ought to do something for Mrs. Bartlett, as well. I’ve a bit of ham left from Sunday’s dinner, and I’ll take it over to her straightaway. With some of the bread and the potatoes. If you’ll look in on her tomorrow, and the next day-just until she gets past the worst of it.”

The woman wearing spectacles said, “I’ll see what’s in the gardens, that she might care for.”

The mourners rose and walked across the tearoom to settle their account.

As they closed the shop door behind them, the owner spoke briefly to the new couple, and then came over to clear away the empty table.

Rutledge waited until she was nearest where he sat. “Those women,” he said. “Do they live in Marling?”

The woman wiped her hands on her apron and turned. He was the stranger here, and she was debating how to respond to his curiosity.

“Inspector Rutledge. Scotland Yard,” he told her. “I’ve a need to know.”

“They’re local.” The owner’s face remained doubtful as she studied him. “They’ve just been to the funeral of the man killed along the road the other night. Peggy Bartlett couldn’t offer them anything afterward, though the Women’s Institute had said they’d see to some refreshment. But Peggy wouldn’t hear of it. I can’t say that I blame her-she’s beholden enough for the vicar and the coffin. I hope the police find whoever did these terrible things and send him to the gallows!”

Her kind face was suddenly grim and unforgiving.

Walking to the police station, Rutledge decided it would be best to speak to Sergeant Burke. The man was just settling into his chair. He looked up at Rutledge, his eyes tired. “I expect you’re wanting Inspector Dowling, sir. He hasn’t come back from the Bartlett funeral. I was glad to escape early. It’s hard to watch women cry and not have any comfort to give!”

Rutledge answered, “Actually I’ve come to ask if anyone spoke to young Peter Webber after his father’s death.”

Burke rubbed his forehead with a thick fist. “He was that upset, no one had the heart to ask him anything. He’s just turned eight; there wasn’t much he could tell us about his father. Webber was away most of the lad’s life. They were just getting acquainted again, you might say.”

Rutledge took the chair in front of the sergeant’s desk. “I understand that. But I have a feeling it might be a good idea to speak to him.”

Burke said warily, “What put you onto the lad?”

“I heard four women in the tea shop discussing the funeral, and his name came up in the conversation. Peter doesn’t know me, but he’d speak to you, I think. If you encouraged him.” Rutledge repeated what he’d overheard.

Burke heaved himself out of his chair. “Well, then, Peter’ll be on his way home from school about now. We can look for him.”

They found the boy trudging along the road in the rain, head down, his shabby coat dark across the shoulders. A slim child, with long hands and long feet, a promise of height to come.

Burke instructed Rutledge to stop the motorcar just ahead of the boy.

“You’re wet through, lad,” he called. “Mr. Rutledge here will give you a lift home,” Burke said, getting out to open the rear passenger door. “Come along, then, and mind you don’t set your muddy feet on the seat!”

With alacrity the boy did as he was told. It wasn’t often he was offered an opportunity to ride in a motorcar. He settled quickly in the seat, but leaned forward (as Hamish seemed to do from time to time), his eyes fixed on the instrument panel.

“Could you blow the horn, then?” he asked, bubbling with excitement.

“Could you blow the horn, please, sir?” Burke chided him.

“Please, sir?” Peter repeated shyly, and laughed with glee as Rutledge squeezed the rubber bulb.

Rutledge thought, Ben Shaw’s son was this age when his father was hanged…

There was something about the boy, the fineness of his hands and skin, that spoke of better breeding than a laborer’s child. In that lay the similarity Burke said, “Your mum getting on all right, is she? Enough food on the table?” He quietly gestured to Rutledge to stop the car at the next house.

Peter answered, “We’re faring well enough.” But he had the thinness of a growing child who was always hungry.

“Mr. Rutledge here is interested to know more about your pa, hoping to help us find the devil that did it. Did anyone come looking for him, do you think, before he died?”

The boy squirmed a little in his seat. “I don’t remember!”

“Yes, you do, Peter. It won’t go any further, I promise you. But it might do some good. Tell us, then.”

After a short silence the boy said, “I never saw him before.”

“There’s a start,” Burke said, encouraging. “Not from Marling, then, do you suppose?”

“No. At least, no one I’d know by sight.”

“What else can you remember?”

“Not very much.” As if the lengthening silence urged him to say more, Peter added, “He wasn’t as heavy as you are. But tall, like the vicar.” After a moment, consideringly, “He wore a greatcoat. Like a soldier. But he wasn’t a soldier.”

“I’d say the vicar is five foot eleven,” Burke said in an aside to Rutledge. And to Peter, “What was his coloring, then?”

Peter shrugged, fingering the back of Rutledge’s seat, his hands busy and his eyes on them. “He was fair. He took off his hat as he stood talking to me, smoothing back his hair. That was after I’d told him Pa wasn’t at home.”

“What did he want with your father? Did he say?”

“No.” And then, “He just asked where he’d fought in the war, and with what regiment. As if he was looking for someone, and Pa might have known the man.”

“I see. And his age, Peter, what would you say that was?”

“He was Pa’s age. Thereabouts. Could you please blow the horn again, sir? My little sister’s looking out the window!”

Rutledge obliged. Peter laughed again, but it wasn’t as carefree as the first time. He made a movement to leave the car, but Burke sat where he was.

“Anything that set this man’s face apart, that you remember? A large nose? A cleft in the chin? Eyes too close together?”

Peter shook his head and turned to see if his sister was still watching. The house was a small cottage on the edge of Marling, with a rough garden in the front and a roof that needed rethatching. Chickens and geese scratched in the muddy earth in a large pen behind the cottage. Peter began fumbling with the door, unsure how to let himself out.