Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

“Did he speak to you?”

“No. When I was even with him, he came at me with the knife. I didn’t see it in his hand at first. He was on me and the knife was already cutting my chest. I’ve told you this already-” The frown deepened.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. I would have said he was not a common laborer on his way home. He-There was something in the way he moved. I don’t know-”

“Where did he go after he stabbed you?”

“I have no idea. He was there-and he was gone.”

“On foot?”

“I was too busy just then to care.” Hauser finished the tea and then, setting the cup aside, he said, “I’ve been wounded before. I know the drill.”

“Yes.”

Hamish was stirring in the back of Rutledge’s mind.

Hauser said, “What is it that haunts you? I ask, because whatever it was, it nearly got me killed in France. And it could very well get me killed here.”

Rutledge stood up, searching in the cupboards for a pitcher. “Will you be able to manage for a few more hours? I’ll draw some water for you, and set the tins of food on the table with the bread and what’s left of the sausage, where you can reach them.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Still watching Rutledge, Hauser said, “Is it because I know about France that you’re afraid to take me to the local police? I’ve had some time to think about this matter, you see. It’s either that, or you’re worried about Mrs. Mayhew’s reputation.”

“Or perhaps,” Rutledge said, walking toward the door, “having killed one innocent man, I’ve found it the easiest way to do my business. Like a tiger that’s tasted the meat of a human being, I’ve learned to like it.”

Hauser waited until Rutledge was about to close the door, then said, “I had nightmares long before the war was finished. I saw the dead come back for me. And my weapon jammed, and I realized that I couldn’t stop them anyway, they were already dead. I woke up screaming. I lied and said that I hated rats running across my legs. I don’t know whether my men believed me or not. I suppose the blood of heroes had run thin by my generation. I was not the stuff of soldiers. I was a farmer, like the man who must have built this house. I understand him far better than I understand generals.”

It was in a way a confession, but Rutledge couldn’t in turn bring out the shadows that tormented him. He couldn’t speak of Hamish and the Somme. Or that blind and terrible walk through the German lines.

Shutting the door behind him, he could still hear the voice of the man in the kitchen. “You will not heal until you face your nightmares. A priest told me that, and he was right.”

Rutledge found the pump and brought the filled pitcher back to the kitchen, setting it on the table.

“Not all demons can be exorcised,” he told Hauser.

“No. I do not envy you, my friend!”

Rutledge ignored the German’s parting shot.

Rutledge spent half an hour making a concentrated search of the outbuildings. Blotting out his fatigue and the emotional upheaval that was the aftermath of reliving his own disgrace, he felt clearly the numbness of a year ago, as if in bringing it into the open, he had released the pent-up mass of it into the present.

What did it matter? he thought wearily. I’ve failed so often, what does it matter?

There was work to be done, and he could do that. Try to do that. Until someone found out how hollow he was, and replaced him…

“And Ben Shaw?” Hamish asked quietly.

“I don’t know. God, I wish I did!”

There was nothing unexpected hidden in the sheds and stables. For that matter Rutledge would have been surprised to stumble over a body-Hauser was cleverer than that-but thoroughness was never wasted.

“And yon German knows verra’ well what ye’re doing out here.”

It was part of the game…

But there was one interesting find after all. In the carriage house Rutledge came across a motorcar, with worn tires-and a small amount of petrol in the tank. There was no way to tell how recently it had been run. A brief examination told him that it could still run.. ..

Hamish reminded him, “The grass wasna’ beaten down on the drive until you came here. He was on foot when witnesses saw him.”

“And the townspeople in Marling would recognize the Mortons’ motorcar, if Hauser drove it there. I’ll ask Meade if there’s another way in here. Still, it’s interesting, isn’t it?”

“You could move a body verra’ well, in a motorcar at night.”

“Or offer a tired man a lift.”

Driving back to Marling, Rutledge gave some thought to what to do about the German. He couldn’t ignore the fact that he was aiding and abetting a fugitive, whatever reasons he might summon to explain it away. Hauser was an educated, clever man. He had been a German officer. And Rutledge was well aware that he himself was vulnerable to the man’s manipulation of whatever had happened in France. He still wasn’t sure he had the whole truth of it-or whether Hauser had simply used the bits of memory Rutledge did possess to cast himself in a hero’s role.

Hamish had his own view. “It’s the deid on your conscience that torment you. No’ the German. You havena’ made peace wi’ the ghosts.”

“I killed them. I counted the dead that unspeakably long night before you were shot. Someone ought to have put me up before a firing squad-for murder! They were hardly more than boys-when they lay wounded or dying, they called for their mothers! It was slaughter, and I couldn’t tell them.”

“No,” Hamish answered tiredly. “It was better to die believing they were no’ wasting their lives. It was better for their families to feel it wasna’ in vain. The cruelty was knowing, as you and I did. It’s the reason you willna’ face the Shaw case-he was defeated, and died a broken man. And you see yourself in him!”

Rutledge said, “You weren’t there. You don’t know.”

“I wasna’ there,” Hamish agreed. “But Jimsy Ridger is deid, and if yon German didna’ kill him, he still could ha’ killed the ithers.”

In the end Rutledge went to the police station and sought out Inspector Dowling.

Without preamble, he said, “I’d like to pose a theoretical question.”

“Theoretical, is it?” Dowling asked, regarding his counterpart from London with curiosity.

Rutledge took the chair across from Dowling’s desk. “If you were on the roads outside Marling last night, and someone attacked you, would you report it?”

Dowling frowned. “Most people would, I think. Were there theoretical wounds?”

“Let’s assume there were.”

“Well, then, the doctor would be your first thought. After that, it’s out of your hands, isn’t it? The doctor will be reporting to the police, anyway.”

“And what about the attacker? What would he do?”

“Go home and pretend nothing has happened. As he may have done three times before.”

“What if he isn’t the killer we’re after? What if he attacked out of what he saw as self-defense-a terrified man striking first, for fear of becoming victim number four? In the dark, our theoretical man might have seemed threatening, or appeared to be deliberately following him. An honest mistake, as it were.”

“He’d still go to ground.” Dowling rubbed his chin. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been afraid something like this might happen. But strike, you say. As with a cane? A knife? A pitchfork?”

Rutledge smiled. “Strike as in assault. Theory doesn’t disclose further details. We’ll have to find this man and ask him.”

“Why not find the victim first? If he’s still alive, he’s a witness.”

“The victim has his own secrets. He won’t come forward of his own accord.”