Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

The astonishment of it was still in his voice. “I saw you kneel and start to do something with a dressing. And then everything went black. I thought he’d probably kill you as well, but when I asked the men who’d found me, they said there wasn’t another body. Just mine. I decided you’d simply walked away, and never looked back.”

Rutledge drew a harsh breath. “I don’t know what happened after that. I suppose someone thought at first I was a released prisoner. Later-back in England-someone came to visit me in hospital. Out of curiosity, I expect. Or the doctors may have sent for him. But I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. And the nursing sister came and took him away.” He cleared his throat.

He couldn’t tell this man, dressed in ordinary civilian clothes and a long way from the Front, how badly shell-shocked he’d been. How confused those months in hospital had been.

“Head wounds,” Hauser was saying. “They do strange things.” He made as if to shrug it off, as if it were too far in the past to matter anyway. “The question now is, what are you to do with me?” He swallowed the rest of his whisky at a gulp, set down the jam jar, and waited, his eyes fixed on Rutledge’s face.

Rutledge got to his feet, one of his leg muscles cramping, and lifted the dressing on Hauser’s chest. The blood had stopped running and was beginning to make dark clots along the edge of the wound. He thought, It must be painful for the man to breathe…

Hamish said, reversing fields, “If ye take him to the police, they’ll clap him in irons and close the case.”

Silently arguing, Rutledge said, “He’s probably guilty.”

“Aye. But first ye find the one that did the wounding… and why.”

Aloud Rutledge answered the question Hauser had asked. “I could take you in, let them charge you, and come to the hanging. Or I could leave you here until I’ve looked into your story. I don’t think you’re up to walking far.”

Hauser gave a grunting laugh. “Not tonight. I won’t promise tomorrow.”

Rutledge turned and examined the cupboards. The German had brought in tins, bread, a sausage, and a bowl of apples. There was cheese wrapped in a cloth, and the pitcher for water.

Watching him, Hauser said, “I couldn’t risk a fire. Smoke rising from the chimney would have attracted attention. I’ve bathed and shaved in cold water. No different from life in the trenches, when you think about it. Although we were a damned sight more comfortable in ours than you were in yours.”

Which was true.

“I’ll leave the decanters here. For the pain, not to give you Dutch courage for an escape. Does Mrs. Mayhew know where you are living? Is she likely to come here searching for you?”

Outraged, Hauser swore. “ Mein Gott, nein! No!” He struggled to get to his feet and failed. “She and I have met, yes, but she knows nothing about me. I have Dutch papers. She came into the church in Marling, where I was trying to stay warm, out of the wind. She thought I was praying. We talked about the greenery she was bringing for the service that Wednesday evening. I’d seen something much like it in the gardens around this house, so I thought she might have come here. I was worried. But she had found them on her own property. Then we talked about the flatness of Holland, and the tulips. I met her again on the train to London, quite by accident. We talked about the war, and books, whatever we could think of. We have only talked.”

But for a lonely woman, Rutledge thought, companionship was precious, and a meeting of minds was but a stepping-stone to wishful thinking…

He left then, still unsure how far he could trust the German, and drove back through the gates, toward Marling. Tired to the bone, he ignored Hamish and concentrated on the road. Dairy cows were making their way to pasture, streaming across just ahead of him, forcing him to stop and wait. There was no one with them, but the cow at their head knew her way as well as any farmer. Plodding with empty udders, they ignored him, except for one young heifer who stared with dark and friendly eyes, as if the motorcar was a curiosity.

Had he made the right decision about Hauser?

Dawn had broken as Rutledge drove into Marling. He felt grubby, his beard rasping against the sweater under his chin. Leaving the motorcar in its accustomed place behind the hotel, he went in through the yard door and up to his room.

The bed was inviting, the room cool enough for sleep. But he shaved and bathed, then dressed for the day, noting that there was blood on the cuffs of the shirt he’d taken off. He washed it out himself, and left it to dry by the window.

Breakfast was a hurried affair, a mere restoking of the fires of energy, and a second cup of tea gave him a second wind.

When Rutledge walked into the police station afterward, Sergeant Burke said affably, “Mrs. Mayhew was here, asking for you.”

Alert, Rutledge said, “And what did she want with me?”

“Something about urgently needing to find you. She looked as if she hadn’t slept. Anything wrong?”

Burke was too sharp to be put off with excuses. Rutledge said, “She had an alarm in the night. Tell me, who might be walking down the Marling road late? Besides a killer?”

Scratching his jaw thoughtfully, Burke answered, “Well, now, there’s not so much traffic as once there was. People being wary, eager to be home as fast as they can. The gentry in motorcars and carriages don’t mind as much.” When Rutledge didn’t respond, he added, “It’s hard to say, sir, without an hour to judge by.”

“After midnight.”

“Lord love you, sir, there’s not much likelihood of anybody being on the road then. Not with three dead already!”

Hamish said, “Aye, it may be the killing has stopped for that reason.”

Rutledge responded silently, “Or someone has discovered that Jimsy Ridger is dead.”

To Burke he said, “If you hear any news of trouble, get in touch with me as soon as you can.”

“That I will, sir, but there’s no report so far,” Burke answered doubtfully.

Hamish agreed. “Aye, who’ll tell the police he stabbed a man, even out of fear for his own life?”

Elizabeth Mayhew was in her sitting room, her eyes red with lack of sleep and tears.

“Where is he?” She got up from the comfortable chair by the fire, looking forlorn and far younger than her years.

“Safe for the moment.” Rutledge had sat in this room with Richard and Elizabeth many times. The bookshelves, the hearth, the table where they’d taken their tea when there were no guests-it was all sadly familiar. The carpet was worn in one corner where, long before the war, one of the young dogs had chewed at it. There was a photograph on the east wall that he himself had taken of the house, and Elizabeth had framed. Familiar…

“I thought you might have turned-” She stopped. “Is he at Dr. Pugh’s surgery? I couldn’t think of an excuse to call there.”

“He’s not at the surgery, nor is he in a cell at the police station. You shouldn’t concern yourself with this man-”

She flushed with anger. “I haven’t concerned myself with this man-”

But before she could rashly commit herself to something she would regret, Rutledge interrupted brusquely. “He’s safe, Elizabeth. For the time being. I haven’t decided what to do about him. But you should understand that he’s a suspect-”

“Nonsense! He’s staying in a hotel in Rochester. They’ll vouch for him there, and tell you he’s a respected Dutch citizen here on personal business.”

“Is that what he’s told you?”

She began to pace the floor. Rutledge silently remained on his feet as well. Elizabeth turned on him. “You’re trying to make me believe that such a man could be guilty of murder! I won’t listen. If you turn him in to Inspector Dowling, I shall swear that he was with me when the murders occurred-”