Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

It was like an obsession, her blindness. She believed in this man she thought was Dutch, and she would place her own reputation in jeopardy to protect him.

“You can’t. I was here the night the last man was killed.” Rutledge stood there, watching her, thinking that he didn’t have the kind of experience to cope with this. He considered Lydia Hamilton, and rejected that idea. Lydia was a friend of the Mayhews, yes, but she would come to see Elizabeth in a vastly different light if she knew what was happening-and it would stand as a barrier between the two women after Elizabeth had come to her senses.

His sister Frances, then?

But she, too, was a friend. And Elizabeth would find it even harder to face her, because Frances had been very fond of Richard… .

Melinda Crawford? He couldn’t bring himself to worry her.

Hamish warned, “It isna’ wise to interfere-”

“I’d like to see him,” Elizabeth said, flushed. “And this safe place you’ve found for him. I’d like to go there. Now.”

Putting his own friendship with Richard’s wife on the line-and realizing with a bitter sense of loss what he risked in doing this-Rutledge said firmly, “No. Not now. Not later. I’ve told you, he’s a suspect in these local murders, and until he’s cleared-until I can clear him of suspicion, you cannot openly befriend him. It would ruin you-”

“I don’t care about ruin. I do care about this man-”

It had been put into words. Her infatuation.

They stared at each other, and fear crept unbidden into her eyes. “Ian-”

He shook his head. “I’ve had no sleep,” he said, more curtly than he intended. “And you’ve had very little yourself. I’m leaving before one of us says something we can’t take back.”

Walking out the sitting-room door without waiting for an answer, he saw her face before he could take his eyes away from hers. And read in them her determination to search on her own for Gunter Hauser.

Rutledge went back to the vicinity of the burned-out oast house to look for signs, but even in the pale sunlight he could see nothing that either supported or refuted the German’s story. Looking around, he saw that it was an ideal spot for an ambush. Another of those empty stretches of open land. He himself had passed here on the night porter’s bicycle a good hour before the attack.

Hamish said, “He could be lying.”

But if there wasn’t an attack here-who had slashed the German’s chest with a knife? And where?

Fatigue was catching up with him as he drove back into Marling. The road seemed to dance in the watery sunlight, and the trees flickered like a fan. As he swerved to miss what he thought was someone in the high grass along the verge, only to realize it was the shadow of his own motorcar passing with him, he knew rest was essential.

He stopped for petrol, then carried on to the hotel and allowed himself two hours of restless sleep. And he was on the road again, turning between the stone pillars and down the overgrown drive to pull up outside the kitchen door.

The house in the midday light was a richly shaded brick, with stone forming the portico and steps and facing the front windows. A family home, made for light and laughter and children, not for pretensions and grand aspirations. A quiet residence set in the countryside and surrounded by its fields and pastures and woodland, shielded from the road by old trees and great banks of rhododendron that were now sadly in need of trimming.

Crows flew up from the chimney as Rutledge got out of the motorcar and stood looking around him. This was the England he had fought for. And it was already dying. The crows might as well be vultures.

Shaking off his somber mood, he walked briskly toward the kitchen door, knocking once before opening it.

Hamish called, “’Ware!”

But there was nothing to be wary of. Gunter Hauser, far from a threat, was lying on the makeshift bed, deeply asleep and snoring like a drunk.

Before Rutledge could step forward and shake him awake, the man came out of his sleep with the abruptness of a soldier, instantly cognizant of where he was and that danger was approaching. And definitely not drunk.

Opening those blue eyes, he fixed Rutledge with a feverish stare and said, “You, is it?”

Rutledge came in and took off his outer coat. “You look like the very devil.”

“Yes, well, I feel like it. I couldn’t sleep for hours. When I finally did, it was like the sleep of the dead.” Forcing himself to sit up, he regarded Rutledge quizzically. “Am I to be taken into custody?”

“Not yet. I’m taking you to the doctor in Marling first.”

“Over my dead body. Sit down, it hurts my shoulder to look up at you.”

Rutledge pulled out a chair from the table and sat. After a moment he chose his opening gambit. “You’re the best suspect I have. I’d earn a commendation for solving these murders so quickly, you must see that. You’re here in England under false pretenses, and that’s only the first strike against you. What’s more, there’s business in London that needs my attention.” He kept his voice level and his eyes hard.

“It would not be to your glory to find out in a courtroom that you were very wrong. As a matter of interest, have you ever hanged an innocent man?”

It was too close to the mark. Rutledge looked away before he could stop himself.

“So.” There was a pause, and then Gunter Hauser asked, “It was a shocking experience for Mrs. Mayhew, finding me bleeding all over her steps. Has she recovered?”

“I expect she’s out searching for you. With a first stop at the hotel in Rochester, where she’s certain you are staying.”

It was Hauser’s turn to look away. “So. She will quickly be disillusioned.”

“Lies have a way of coming home to roost.”

“Like the crows on the roof, which should have awakened me, and didn’t. Is there any more of that whisky? I’d prefer schnapps, but beggars aren’t choosers.”

“It won’t settle well on an empty stomach.” Rutledge got up, taking out the bread and the sausage, cutting off a chunk, adding a slice of cheese to make a sandwich for Hauser. Then he went out to the motorcar and brought in the Thermos of hot tea he’d asked the hotel to put up for him.

Hauser eyed it with interest, but laughed when Rutledge poured it and he saw it was tea. “How the English can drink tea is beyond a European’s imagination. But it is hot, and just now, I am grateful.”

Rutledge laced the tea with a little whisky and passed it to Hauser. “Tea-drinking Englishmen defeated your armies, if you remember.”

“No, it was the Americans did that. We couldn’t fight all of you. What do they drink, the Yanks?”

“Bourbon, I expect,” Rutledge answered, and was silent while Hauser got down the food and most of the tea.

Seeming to be a little stronger after that, the German said, “You don’t know what to do with me. I’m a problem, like a dead horse.”

“The truth is,” Rutledge told him, “I have you just where I want you. For the moment. We can’t seem to lay hands on the man who stabbed you. Is he up the stairs under one of the sheet-shrouded beds?”

Hauser laughed. “See for yourself. No one will stop you.”

“The outbuildings, then?”

The laughter faded. “I have killed no one. I was the one who was assaulted, if you remember.”

“Describe him, then. This man.”

Hauser frowned. “He was perhaps my height. And there was something wrong with the way he walked-I overtook him easily. Or perhaps he was intoxicated.”

Rutledge considered the drunk he himself had brought in. Had Holcomb armed himself with a knife, since then?

Hauser was saying, “At any rate, I was soon catching him up. He crossed the road then, and I expected to pass by on my side with no more than a nod.”