Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

Dowling said, “I should think, considering this theory of yours, that the hands of the police are tied. I don’t care for that. There are men dead, after all.”

“If,” Rutledge said, “the victim here is a red herring-and there may be reasons to think so-to bring him forward would overshadow the search for the real murderer. People would be eager to believe it’s over, and let down their guard.”

Dowling leaned forward in his chair, staring at the Londoner. “If you’ve made up your mind, why tell me this cock-and-bull story?”

“Because,” Rutledge answered, unsmiling, “I don’t want to be seen as going behind your back. But for various reasons, it’s best for the theoretical attack to be kept quiet. At the same time, I need to hear any rumors or gossip that might begin to float about. And you need to know how to listen for them.”

“I don’t like working in the dark!”

“You aren’t.” Rutledge got to his feet. “Find out, if you can, who was on the Marling road last night near a burned-out oast house, and why he was armed, and what made him strike first. The theoretical loose ends.” He waited, wondering if he’d misjudged his man. Wondering, in truth, where Dowling would stand-with him or against him.

Hamish predicted grimly, “He will stand wi’ ye-for now. And then turn on you.”

There was a strong possibility of that.

Dowling studied Rutledge for several seconds. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ve not been able to solve these murders on my own. That’s why the Chief Constable sent for you. I’ll find the answers to your questions. But by God, when I do, I’ll expect the answers to mine!”

“Fair enough,” Rutledge replied. “You might begin with our drunk from Seelyham.” And then, earnestly, he added, “If I tell you the whole story, people are going to jump to conclusions that will only muddle the facts. I need your help, but I don’t want it prejudiced by my suspicions. There’s probably enough circumstantial evidence to charge my theoretical victim, but when we do, the real killer will be the one who goes to ground. And the chances are, we won’t winkle him out again.”

“You’ve an odd way of putting it, but I see your point,” Dowling answered reluctantly. “On the other hand, I heard from London that you were a secretive bastard who played his own game. Perhaps there’s more to that than I was ready to believe.”

Rutledge smiled. “Not secretive. Merely careful. You’ll still be in charge here long after I’m gone. If I’m wrong, you won’t be brought down with me.”

He went back to the hotel and made an effort to sleep for a few hours. But his usual ability to close his eyes and ignore the world around him eluded him, and for a time Rutledge lay there on the bed, rigid, one arm flung over his closed eyes, and his mind wrestling with one image after another. He could feel the tension in his bones, and for a while he thought he would never sleep again.

It began to occur to him that there was one grain of good in the disaster of his war. A single saving grace. He knew now he’d never abandoned his men before the fighting ended. He hadn’t walked away from the line while they were dying. Whatever else he had been and done, he had not forsaken them.

And with that, he drifted into a restless sleep.

It was sometime later that he was summoned to the lounge. Elizabeth Mayhew was waiting there. She was beyond anguish now, her eyes burning in a pale face, her hands tightly gripped together as if to keep them from shaking.

“I’ve looked everywhere. I telephoned the hotel in Rochester. There’s no one registered under that name…”

He sat down on the small footstool beside her chair. “What name do you know him by?”

“Gunter Hauser, of course!”

“Has he ever shown you his papers?”

“No, why should he? Do you go about showing people yours?” She remembered that he was a policeman. “I mean, at dinner parties or a cricket match?”

“Of course not.” Looking at her dark blue coat and the patterned silk of her collar, he was reminded of the Shaws and their faded, ill-fitting clothes. And that reminded him in turn of something that Melinda Crawford had told him. “Did Hauser give you the gift of a silk shawl?”

Elizabeth turned her head. “It’s none of your business.”

Which answered his question. “You know he was married? And that he has children?”

Her eyes came back to his. “It doesn’t make any difference. What kind of life will I have as Richard’s widow? Shall I travel, as Melinda Crawford did after her husband was killed? Or take up charity work? Set my cap for someone like you, who was Richard’s friend long before he was mine, because I’d rather have a safe marriage and children than none at all? You don’t know what it’s like, Ian, you aren’t a woman! It’s so easy for you to find love!”

Was it? He said only, “I’m not criticizing you, Elizabeth. I am trying to protect you. What if this man is a murderer? I’ve got witnesses who could identify him, people who will swear that he’s been stopping ex-soldiers and asking them for information about Jimsy Ridger. It casts a very bad light on his activities, when there’ve been murders among this same group of men. If you love him, of course I’ll do what I can for him. But if he’s guilty of murder, I can’t let him walk free! Nor should you expect me to.”

She seemed to shrink into herself, suddenly small and defenseless and very afraid in the overlarge chair. “Oh, Ian, how did we ever come to this?”

He could see the tears in her eyes. And the sorrow. He didn’t have an answer to give her.

“If Richard had only come home, none of this would have mattered, would it?” she asked. “But he didn’t, and I have to accept it and try to forget and look out for my own future. Gunter is a man very like Richard, you know. In many ways. He likes music and books and poetry, and he loved his farm. He’s described it to me-how the brick house and barn form one great building, how smoky the chimneys are when it rains for days, how the windmills keep the land drained, so that crops can grow, how he hunted ducks along the canals when he was young.”

“He’s not Dutch, Elizabeth. He’s German. He must have been describing his cousin’s way of life, not his own. The papers he carries belong to his cousin. They aren’t his, either.”

Elizabeth stared at him, appalled. “No! It isn’t true-”

“I-saw him during the war, my dear. He was a German officer. There’s absolutely no doubt about that fact.”

She began to cry, the tears spilling through her lashes, her eyes awash. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll never forgive you,” she whispered. “Never!”

He reached out to take her hands in his, but she pulled them away, tucking them around her out of sight.

Rutledge offered her his handkerchief and after a moment added, “I think you should go to stay with Mrs. Crawford for a few days. It would be best. She’ll be happy for the company.”

She fumbled with the handkerchief then, and wiped her eyes. “I’ve got to go somewhere. I can’t bear to walk into that house now, where his blood was all over the floor, and Richard’s memory is everywhere I look.”

“I’ll drive you, if you like.”

“I’ve made a terrible fool of myself, haven’t I?” Her eyes begged for a denial.

“No. I think you were ready for comfort and love and warmth again. I’m sorry it isn’t possible.” He stood up, looking down at her. “I’ll take you home, and then come back in an hour-two-and drive you to Mrs. Crawford’s.”

“What will you tell her?”

“I won’t tell her anything. She won’t ask why you’re there. She never does. The rest is your decision.”