Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

He made a great fuss over bringing in the cases, carrying them up the broad stairs himself as Shanta came running, protesting vigorously that he must do no such thing.

By that time, Mrs. Crawford had returned with a small, oddly bulging sack. “I’ve added some soup,” she said breathlessly. “It will do no harm.”

He kissed her hands, and was out the door. But before he had shut it behind him she was already opening the door to the sitting room, saying briskly, “The most stubborn man! He insisted on taking up the luggage himself…”

Hamish grumbled, “Ye’re digging your ain grave deeper. It’s no’ verra’ clever-”

Rutledge had debated his best course of action, driving with a silent Elizabeth huddled in her seat staring out at nothing.

But once he committed Gunter Hauser to the police, saw him taken into custody and charged, it was out of his hands. This whole affair. And right or wrong, solid evidence or not, it was all too likely that the German would go to trial, and the case against him as an imposter in the country on false pretenses would make the murder charges far more believable. It was one thing to bring in the guilty. It was another to doom the innocent.

Like Ben Shaw, for one.

He swore.

Hamish said, “I canna’ find a reason for his killing those men.”

“Nor can I. Yet. If it wasn’t the Friedrichtasse, what was his business with Jimsy Ridger?”

“Something else stolen, that he canna’ name.”

Rutledge turned at the crossroads for Marling, passing a dogcart that held a pretty girl and two younger sisters. Her fair hair was almost hidden by a tam, the long blond tendrils blowing in the wind, her cheeks pink with cold. It could have been 1914, before the annihilation of a generation.

It was dusk when he turned into the drive of the manor house. Hamish complained, “Ye canna’ keep coming here-someone will ken a motorcar’s driven through the gates now.”

Rutledge said, “I’ll deal with that later, when I have the time.”

Hauser had lit the candle on the table, and as Rutledge walked up to the door, he heard the scrape of a chair’s feet on the stone paving of the kitchen floor.

“It’s Rutledge,” he said as he came through to the kitchen.

Hauser, haggard and unshaven, snapped, “You scared the hell out of me. I’d fallen asleep in the chair!”

“I’ve brought soup-a beef broth, I think-in this Thermos. And new dressings, and more whisky. In the boot are bread and pork pies and apples, along with more cheese.”

Hauser sniffed hungrily at the Thermos and exclaimed, “My God, it’s like the broth my grandmother used to make! Where did you find it?”

“Sit down and let me look at the wound.”

Hauser did as he was told, and grimaced as Rutledge peeled the blood-caked dressing away from the skin. Looking down, he said, “It’s not infected, thank God.”

“Not yet. It’s clean enough. There’s a good chance you’ll live.” Rutledge used one of the precious cloths to bathe the wound, and then re-bound it, this time with more finesse than he’d used in Elizabeth Mayhew’s house. “That should do. I’ve brought something besides the whisky, if the pain keeps you from sleeping.”

“Or to keep me from wandering? I could drive away in that motorcar. I wasn’t able to do it today, but by tomorrow-”

“Yes, you could do that,” Rutledge agreed impassively. He found a kitchen bowl that would hold the broth, and a spoon. Handing both to Hauser, he said conversationally, “All things considered, what will you do now that Ridger is dead?”

“There’s no choice but to go home. I haven’t the money to waste on wishful thinking.”

The crows flew up in noisy protest, and Rutledge stepped to the door to look out. But there was no one there, only a prowling cat.

He came back to the kitchen, satisfied. “Tell me, why do you think these ex-soldiers were killed?” Seating himself on the edge of the heavy wooden table, he said, “You must have known about them. Did you think that because you were whole, no one would touch you?”

“I didn’t have the luxury of waiting the killer out. I told you. Money is short. When it’s gone, I have nothing, and nowhere to turn.” He ate the soup with relish. “Men kill for passion, and they kill for money. And they kill to keep a secret. Take your pick.”

“They kill for revenge.”

Hauser regarded him for a moment, spoon in midair. “So. You have been asking questions about me!”

Concealing his surprise, Rutledge said, “The old Frenchman shot you for revenge. It’s common enough in wartime.”

“Still. You must know about my brother.” A pause. “Did you bring the laudanum so that when the police come, they will find it in my possession? Oh, yes, I looked in the sack while you were seeing to the crows. I’m a suspicious man.”

“I told you. It was brought to help you sleep. I want the hangman to find you healthy enough to break your neck as you fall through the trapdoor.”

Hauser put the cap on the Thermos of broth, leaving half of it for later. As if he’d lost his appetite.

Rutledge said, “Tell me about your brother.”

“There’s nothing to tell. Except that after the cup was stolen, my brother Erich was killed.” He looked away. The wound was still rawer than the slash on his chest. “Perhaps if we had had the cup, he would still be alive. Call it superstition, if you will. So. I had every reason to kill Jimsy Ridger. But no one else.”

“And yet you claim you’ll sell the cup, if you find it.”

“If we stay in Germany, my son will be old enough to fight in the next war. There’s always a next war. If I take him away from Europe, he won’t need the protection of the cup. He’ll be safe.”

Hamish cautioned, “He would make a verra’ fine chess player. But I wouldna’ turn my back on him!”

Rutledge, rising from the table’s edge, conceded the point.

Rutledge was walking down the passage to his room when the maid, her arms full of brooms and mops, a bucket clutched in one hand, smiled at him. “Mr. Rutledge? Mr. Haskins at the desk asked me earlier if I’d seen you. There’s a telephone message for you!”

It was from Chief Superintendent Bowles. When he had been located, his voice came down the line affably. “I’ve had no word on the situation in Marling. No progress to report, eh?”

“So far, there’s nothing new. But the killing has stopped. For the present.”

“The Chief Constable will be grateful for that blessing. But it’s not good enough. There’s bound to be something to point in the murderer’s direction! What does the local man have to say? Dowling.”

“Murder at night on a deserted road leaves very little to be going on with. By the time police reached the scene, morning traffic had already obliterated any tracks or other evidence.”

“Not good enough,” Bowles repeated. There was a pause. “The Chief Constable informs me you’ve dined with the great Raleigh Masters. Rumor says the man’s dying.”

Rumor, Hamish was pointing out, had clearly said a great deal more.

“He seemed lively enough,” Rutledge replied, trodding carefully. “He was reminiscing about Matthew Sunderland. I remember him from the Shaw case.”

“Ah! So that’s why you were looking at the files! Indeed.”

“It was a matter of luck,” Rutledge agreed, “to hear someone of Masters’s caliber discuss the legal implications of a crime. Particularly one I’d worked on.”

Wary, Bowles’s voice changed. “And what did he have to say?”

“He’s of the opinion that Sunderland was one of the most brilliant legal minds of our age.”

“I would have to agree with him. Dining out is all well and good, you know, but you’re there to find a cold-blooded murderer. I’d prefer to see more progress made on that front!”