Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

Mrs. Masters said, after the courtesies had been observed, “I’ve come to invite Lydia and her husband to dine with us tonight. But they have another engagement. Could I persuade you to join us, Mr. Rutledge? There will be only six, I’m afraid. Tom Brereton, Mrs. Crawford, Elizabeth Mayhew, and you, but I can promise you a fine dinner and lively conversation.”

Lydia’s face, turned away from Mrs. Masters, pleaded with Rutledge to accept.

It was not common for a policeman to be invited to dine. It was, indeed, a measure of Mrs. Masters’s desperation that a stranger and a lowly inspector would be acceptable at her table.

For his own reasons, Rutledge agreed. “I’ll call for Elizabeth, if you like,” he said.

“That would be lovely!”

Lydia put in, “I think I hear Lawrence-”

Rutledge said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll meet him in the hall. There are a few questions I’d like to put to him.”

She nodded, and then a look of alarm spread over her face. As if his words had touched a wellspring of concern that was swiftly hidden.

He thought ironically that it was the policeman she dreaded…

Lawrence was coming down the stairs when Rutledge stepped into the hall and shut the sitting room door behind him.

Hamilton held out his hand and greeted him with a smile. “I hear we have another guest.”

“Mrs. Masters. I’ve accepted a dinner invitation in your stead,” Rutledge answered lightly. “In return, I need a favor.”

“I hope to heaven Bella’s made peace with her cook! Or you’ll be back demanding my firstborn,” Hamilton retorted humorously, leading Rutledge into a small study. Closing the door, he said in a more serious tone, “What’s this about? The murders? I’d heard you’d come down to help the local people. Any progress?”

“None.” He took the chair that Hamilton indicated and looked around the room. It was a study-cum-office, where open law books and stacks of paper indicated an ongoing brief.

Hamilton gestured wryly and said, “I can’t find a reference. It’s there somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on it. I asked Raleigh if he recalled it, but he said I’d earn my keep if I find it on my own.”

Rutledge said, “He may have forgotten it himself.”

Hamilton laughed. “The man’s memory is famous. Matthew Sunderland taught him that, early on. To cultivate a good memory. I sometimes think that Raleigh would be pleased to discover that Sunderland was his father. It would be the crowning moment of his life.”

“Tell me about Sunderland.”

“He was one of the best men of his day. Toward the end there was something that wasn’t noticeable early on. An arrogance. A certainty that he was never wrong. It persuaded judges, sometimes. I never discovered whether this was a pretense or if Sunderland actually believed strongly in his own judgment. Needless to say, he was convincing as hell! Did you ever work with him?”

“The Shaw case. And one other before that. Most of my cases were not of a caliber to rate Matthew Sunderland, K.C.”

“Yes, well, he was a watchword for years. Almost an assurance of conviction, when he was prosecuting. Now, tell me, what is it you need from me? Certainly not the past history of a dead man.”

But it had been what Rutledge needed. Still, he said, “I wonder if you recall someone named Jimsy Ridger.”

“Good God, Jimsy was an eel. Convicting him of anything was impossible. He never came my way, of course, but I’ve heard enough tales about him. Most particularly since he’d spent a goodly part of his life where I lived, and no one in London let me forget it. He wasn’t actually from our part of Kent, but he had a habit of popping up here at the least likely moments.”

“Tell me about him. Not his criminal history, but what you know of him.”

Hamilton got up to offer Rutledge a glass of whisky and then, sipping his own, said ruminatively, “He came with the hop pickers. A wild lad, with no sense of fear. And no one, really, to look out for him. Consequently he fell in with the wrong people. Or they fell in with him.”

It was almost word for word the description that Sergeant Burke had given Rutledge. “I need a picture of him as a man,” he said, studying the amber liquid in his glass but not drinking.

“I doubt that anyone can give you that. Jimsy was as charming as a snake, and as quick. But no one got through the charm into the person behind it. He had more energy than most, and had learned to skirt the law with impunity. Underneath the surface, I always thought he was lonely. No, lonely isn’t the word. I think-” He paused, trying to find the right explanation. “Jimsy was one of those people who never successfully formed friendships. He was too devious and too questionable in his character for most people to like him. He never got close to anyone that I know of. And as a result, he was dangerous. There were no ties, you see, to hold him. In a way, he was like Matthew Sunderland-odd though it might sound. He walked in his own shadow, and showed the world only what he thought it fit for the world to see.”

Rutledge stopped by Elizabeth Mayhew’s house to leave a message that he’d be collecting her in time to drive to the Masterses’ house for dinner.

She was waiting for him in the hall, when he came to lift the knocker on her door later in the evening. She opened it herself, and said, “Ian, I could have had myself driven over, you needn’t have come!”

“I came because I’ll enjoy your company more than my own thoughts, tonight.”

She looked up at him as he closed the door behind her and ushered her down the walk to his car. A fitful moon slipped in and out of the trees and a bank of thinning clouds, its thin crescent cold in the November air.

“You’re tired, aren’t you, Ian? I wish you hadn’t let Bella persuade you to dine with them. Come to that, I shouldn’t have, either. But Melinda Crawford will be there, and I couldn’t let her down.”

“Nor I.” He settled her into the motorcar with a rug for her knees as before, and then went to crank the engine. As he climbed in beside her, she sighed. It was as if she had had other plans that she’d changed, and regretted having to do so.

Rutledge said as they went down the drive, “Did you ever see the Tarrant exhibition in London before the war? There was a painting there that caused a great deal of comment. The name of it was Tristan .”

“Richard liked it. I wasn’t fond of it,” she replied. “He was drawn to flying, you know. I thought the painting made it seem far too glamorous. Or to put it another way, I wasn’t eager to praise anything that would encourage his attraction.” She laughed bitterly. “I was afraid that flying machines would take him from me. I couldn’t even imagine then that war would do that, and I’d be helpless to prevent it. It’s not wise to love too well.”

Hamish said, “She didna’ ken what you were asking about yon portrait.”

It was true-Elizabeth had taken Rutledge’s question at face value, remembering her husband, not reminded of anyone else.

He said, as if moving on, “No, not wise at all. But Richard was intrigued by the concept of flight. He’d told me once that he would like to see the Downs as a bird could. And how the Weald stretched beyond the horizon we were limited to. He was intrigued with maps, and this was the ultimate opportunity to draw the face of the earth.”

“He once talked for hours with Melinda about the project to map India. I think, under different circumstances, he’d have been among the first to volunteer. He was drawn to adventure. Perhaps I never really had him in my heart the way I thought I did.”

“He loved you very deeply. It made dreaming very safe, because you were there to come home to.”