Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

“You should have told him to come to me, Elizabeth. I’d have taken him in and kept him until this business has been sorted out,” she said. “You’ve put Ian-and yourself-into an extremely difficult position! You aren’t in love with this man, you know. You’ve fallen into an infatuation. You haven’t known him long enough to destroy other people’s lives on his account. Now I suggest we all leave this place as quickly as possible. I’ll understand, Elizabeth, if you would rather not return to my house.”

She lifted her skirts to walk gracefully out of the kitchen, leaving the two of them standing face to face.

Hamish was saying, “I’d search the house, if I were you.”

But Rutledge was aware of the emptiness around him, of the sense of someone having walked out of a room just before one walks into it. Hauser was no longer here…

Rutledge drove Elizabeth Mayhew in to Marling, and left her at the door to her house. It was clear that she didn’t want his company or anyone else’s at the moment. When he walked out to the motorcar again, Melinda Crawford told him, “We’ve missed our lunch. If you ask me to dine at the hotel with you, I won’t say no. I shouldn’t worry about Elizabeth if I were you. She’s feeling quite self-righteous at the moment, but it won’t last.”

As they drove past the Cavalier on his plinth, Mrs. Crawford gestured in the statue’s direction. “My husband’s family,” she said. “He was quite a hero, defending Charles the First to the death. It was seen as a brave thing, at the time. But the family lost its title and its lands under Cromwell, and never recovered.”

When they arrived at the hotel, Rutledge offered to order a room for her, to rest.

“Nonsense. I’m not as fragile as I look, my dear.”

“I’d like to speak to Inspector Dowling before we go to the dining room. Do you mind waiting? It’s a matter of unfinished business.”

“I understand. I’ll sit comfortably in the lounge and beg a glass of sherry from the clerk.”

Feeling as if he’d been ground in the mill of the gods, Rutledge walked on to the police station, to find a grinning Inspector Dowling sitting behind his desk like the Cheshire cat.

“Your theoretical victim walked in half an hour ago and gave himself up.”

Stunned, Rutledge said, “Why on earth-” and stopped himself short.

“He said he was innocent of murder, and wanted his name cleared. He said he was attacked on the road north of Marling by someone who mistook him for the killer. From the look of the knife wound in his chest, someone was very nervous indeed!”

“I’d like to see him.”

“He’s in Dr. Pugh’s surgery at the moment, with Sergeant Burke in attendance.” The grin disappeared. “What do you know about this business?”

Hamish hissed, “Walk softly!”

“Hardly more than I’ve told you. As for why I didn’t bring him in, the first reaction of everyone in the county would have been, We have our murderer. He’s a very fair candidate. The newspapers will be full of righteous condemnation.”

Dowling sighed. “Yes. And you were right, reputations will fall over this. But now he’s given himself up, and what am I to do with the fool?”

“God knows. Keep him here for a few days, let him help you with your inquiries.”

“Is it true that Jimsy Ridger is dead?”

“So I’m told.”

“Then,” said Dowling, “if I can’t charge this German, and Ridger is dead, we’ve got no case at all. We’re back where we started from when the Yard sent you to Marling.”

At the Plough, the lobby was full of luggage. A steamer trunk with labels from expensive European hotels and ocean liners was surrounded by matching cases in calfskin, some six or eight of them. A uniformed driver was crisply instructing the housekeeping staff on what went where.

As Rutledge walked toward the sitting room, he found Mrs. Crawford watching from her chair by the door.

She said, “You’d require seven camels for that.”

Rutledge laughed. “Camels are thin on the ground in Kent. Who is the new arrival?”

“So far there’s only the driver on view. Judging from his demeanor, we’re being honored by no less than a duke.”

“The man from Leeds?”

“Very likely.”

They went into the dining room together, and after Rutledge had ordered for them, he said, “Hauser has turned himself in to the local police. But not under his own name. He’s using that of his Dutch cousin. He’s presently at the doctor’s surgery.”

“Pugh? He’s a good man.” She sat back in her chair and sighed. “Hauser is just the man for Elizabeth after all,” she declared. “Quixotic. They’ll be quite happy together.”

“I thought you would be opposed.”

“For Richard’s sake, yes. But that’s water over the dam now. We must learn to let go as well. I shall miss her. I can only hope that she’ll be happy. An English stepmother might not sit well with little German children. What will the police do with this man?”

“I don’t know,” Rutledge answered as their first course was set before them. The dining room was filling up, with market-goers coming in for their meal.

“I can’t see what reason he might have had for murder. The monetary value of that cup is all well and good-”

“After the cup was stolen, his brother was killed in action.”

“Revenge.” She considered the possibility. “But a cold revenge, don’t you think? Without passion or satisfaction.”

“Hauser said much the same thing.”

“I lived in the East for a very long time, Ian. I suppose I’ve absorbed a little of their way of thinking. To kill in this fashion-with wine and then laudanum-you must apply yourself to the task. You must watch and weigh. Enough? Too little, and the victim will live to describe how he came so close to death’s door. Too much, and the victim empties the contents of his stomach before the drug has been effective. I think the question you need to ask yourself is why anyone would do such a thing. It’s far more grim, in my view, than using a weapon.”

It was an interesting point. But where did it lead?

As if she’d read his mind, Melinda Crawford said meditatively, “It would suggest that your killer is mad. Or that he derives some satisfaction from watching the process of death. As if to acquaint himself with it…”

Hamish said, “She’s no’ so verra’ far from death herself. She spoke no’ so verra’ long ago of her will-”

Rutledge heard him.

He couldn’t remember the rest of his meal. The conversation had taken another turn, this time to less dramatic topics, but in the back of his mind, he couldn’t shut out the words tumbling over and over, like stones.

“As if to acquaint himself with it…”

Rutledge went to the police station after driving Melinda Crawford back to her house.

Gunter Hauser was sleeping, but he heard the door to his cell open. Without opening his eyes, he said, “The doctor praised your handiwork. And asked me repeatedly who had seen to the wound. Should I tell him?”

“Elizabeth expected you to take the train to London.”

“Yes, well, she’ll be very disappointed.” He opened his eyes and sat up stiffly. “A bargain, Mr. Rutledge. We both have secrets, you and I. I would be very happy to keep yours, if you keep mine.”

“Early days to decide that.” There was a single chair in the room, and Rutledge hooked it with his foot, then sat down.

“I asked Dowling. He says there’s been no progress on finding your attacker.”

“You can hardly think I wounded myself!”

“Hardly. No, I’m of the opinion he’s not going to surface. He’s no fool; he can’t be sure who he slashed.”