Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

On the outskirts of Seelyham oast houses lined the fields, like misshapen windmills lacking their sails. Miss Shaw asked about them, staring over her shoulder. “I was never much in the countryside,” she said artlessly. “I don’t know anything about flowers or trees. But I like them.”

Rutledge, thinking of the shabby, cheek-by-jowl houses of Sansom Street, replied, “I expect you do. You should consider going into service in the country.” If he’d been on better terms with Elizabeth Mayhew, he could have recommended this girl to her. But she was considering selling up, and there would be no place for Margaret Shaw, when new owners took over.

The pretty face turned to him, brightening. “I could, couldn’t I? If Mama doesn’t find a way to help us. I learn quickly, if I’m taught.”

Hamish said, Covenanter to the bone, “It’s no’ a very fine future, service.”

“For many girls with no other place to go, it provides a home,” Rutledge pointed out.

At that Hamish snapped, “And salves your conscience, aye.”

On the outskirts of Seelyham was a huddle of half-timbered cottages with thatched roofs that led into a broadening of the road, a few side streets, and a small green with two- and three-story brick buildings on either side, one of them half covered with ivy and sporting a sign identifying it as the Seelyham Arms. Around the corner stood a small public house with a pair of benches on either side of the door. The church was set on higher ground where a lane branched to the right, and the churchyard wall ran along the lane for some distance beyond, sharing it on the other side with a rather shabby house that rambled into three wings, its plaster faded to a soft cream and the pointed windows reflecting the church tower. The police station, a farmer walking his dog informed Rutledge, was just beyond the pub.

Rutledge left Miss Shaw in the parlor of the Seelyham Arms, ordering tea and sandwiches for her, before walking along to the station. It was crammed between a pair of shops, one with meats hanging in the window and the other a bakery displaying an array of cakes and bread.

He found Dowling talking with a heavyset, red-faced man who was introduced as Grimes, the local man on the scene. The small office, stuffy with the heat of bodies and the smell of stale food, was almost claustrophobic in atmosphere. Rutledge quickly found himself wanting to leave the outer door standing wide.

Gruff and to the point, Grimes declared, “I’ve just been acquainting Mr. Dowling here with the names of men who’d be included on any list of possible victims if our murderer widens his range. Seemed to be a good idea to say something to each man, and we’ve just done that.”

Rutledge wondered how many able-bodied men had gone marching off to war out of the village’s tiny population. He sat down in the chair offered him and replied, “I take it that they served with the Marling men?”

Grimes looked him over, the height, the thinness of the face, the haunted eyes. But something in Rutledge’s appearance made up his mind for him. “That’s right. Except for two that went to sea.” He sighed. “The farmers got used to their being away, managing somehow. But it’s not the same-never will be. And no money to mechanize.”

“What did these men have to say?” Rutledge asked.

“Not what you’d call helpful information. Dowling sat there and watched them, and he’s of the same mind: Nobody seems to know anything we don’t.” Grimes passed a list to Rutledge, who scanned it quickly. None of the names were familiar. “What’s more, I’d already spoken with the rector. Comparing impressions, you might say. He knows Seelyham as well as or better than I do. And there’s been no indication of secrets or trouble that he’s aware of.” He stirred in his chair, glancing briefly at Dowling. “All the same, the men and their families are worried. You could see it in their faces.”

Hamish said, “If there’s trouble, they’re no’ likely to confide in either priest or police.”

And Hamish was right. Men who had stood shoulder to shoulder in the terrifying bombardments, leaning against the slick mud of the trench walls as they waited for the signal to go over the top, were as close as brothers. What passed between them was kept to themselves, and they looked out for each other. The Scots under Rutledge were as feuding a lot as he’d ever come across in civilian life, but they’d close ranks before an officer, turning bland faces his way and swearing that all was well.

Admirable in some ways, this silence, and infuriating in others.

It could well turn out to be deadly now.

Grimes was saying, “I’ve asked about strangers as well. Not one of these men has seen someone hanging about.”

“There was a boy who came down with the hop pickers. A Jimsy Ridger. Has someone from their ranks been searching for him?” Rutledge asked. “Ridger might not be viewed as a stranger if they’d served with him.”

“If there was, no one spoke up. I recall Ridger, as a matter of fact. An unlikely lad to settle down to a decent living. To my knowledge, he hasn’t been around since the war ended a year ago.” Grimes picked up the thread of his discussion. “But the women, now, they’re a different story. And that’s where we were heading when you walked through the door. If you want to come along, I’d ask only that you let me do the talking.”

Taking acceptance of the invitation for granted, Grimes got heavily to his feet, and Dowling said diffidently, “Ought I to wait here? Too much officialdom-”

“No, you might as well hear what’s said.”

The three men walked briskly in the direction of the brick cottages that stood in a cluster where the High Street ran into the Marling Road. For the most part the homes were well kept, sedate with white curtains at the windows and pots of flowers set in the sunny doorways.

“Mrs. Parker lives here,” Grimes was saying, indicating one of them. “You can see how that pair of windows in the front room overlooks the street.” He tapped lightly on the door, and stood back.

An elderly woman opened it a crack and peered out at them. “Now, then, Mrs. Parker,” Grimes said with gruff affability, “I’ve brought Mr. Dowling and Mr. Rutledge here to listen to what you told me you saw the other night. If you’d not mind repeating it for us.”

She was swathed in shawls, stooped and breathing with noticeable difficulty. She didn’t offer to invite her visitors in; she stood her ground in the doorway, clutching the frame and the edge of the door as if to support herself. A brief gust of wind stirred her thin gray hair and she stepped back into the shelter of the entry. She spoke to them from there, like a frail ghost of the woman she must once have been, her large frame shrunken with illness and age.

“I don’t rest of a night, as you know very well, Bill Grimes! I sit by my windows”-a gnarled finger pointed out the one he’d indicated earlier-“and sleep in my chair when I sleep at all. It was last Tuesday night, I think it was. There was someone walking by, and I leaned forward to tap on the glass.”

“Did you know who it was?”

“Well, I thought I did. I thought it was Tommy Jacobs, and one of the twins had taken ill.”

“And was it?”

She glared at him. “You know very well it wasn’t. You went straight to his door after you left here, and asked him yourself!”

“I know, Mrs. Parker,” Grimes answered patiently. “But these gentlemen don’t.”

“If it’ud been Tommy, he’d have stopped and told me what he was doing out at that hour. Instead he crossed the road there, head down, and hurried off, as if he hadn’t heard me.”

“And how would you describe him?”

She pressed her lips together, trying for breath. “He looked like Tommy Jacobs,” she said after a moment. “Tall. Good shoulders. He had on a heavy coat and his hat. It was cold that night. That’s all I saw.”