Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

She had given Peter Webber’s father a lift home, in her motorcar.

…

Brereton said, “For the sake of argument, how do you feel as you stand over a murder victim? You can’t be objective; you have to feel something. Passion, possibly. Anger? Disgust? Vengefulness?”

“A policeman can’t afford to feel,” Rutledge answered slowly. “He mustn’t let emotion cloud his observations. First impressions are important.”

“All right, bad example. Let’s take interviewing suspects, then. You pry into the deepest, darkest corners of their lives. And what you learn is disturbing. But it turns out neither they nor their secrets have any bearing on the case you’re working on. How do you walk away from that?”

“It isn’t always possible,” Rutledge conceded, picking up his glass and drinking from it.

“And if you’ve learned something that could be set right, even though you betrayed a secret, would you do it?”

“No. I’m not God. I can bring the guilty to justice, or try to. I can’t go around righting wrongs.”

Brereton smiled. “But there must be a great many people who don’t have that discipline. It must be tempting after a while, to play God.”

“And you think someone is doing that, in Marling?”

“I don’t know,” Brereton answered. “But it’s an interesting thought. Isn’t it?”

After the claustrophobic atmosphere of the cottage, Rutledge was glad to drive away. The cold air swept past his face and he felt he could breathe more easily.

It had been an odd conversation.

Hamish said, “Ye noted the bicycle leaning against yon garden wall.”

He had. It provided all the transportation that Brereton needed to go where and when he pleased.

It was possible that Brereton was confessing, after a fashion… .

Was it likely?

Rutledge couldn’t find in the man’s background anything that would translate to murder. But London could tell him more about that.

Tired, he turned at the crossroads for Marling.

Halfway there, he stopped by the trees where Will Taylor had been found and got out again to stand and look at them.

He had been here in the dark. He’d been here during the day. And there was nothing he could learn from this place. Where had these men died? Where they’d been found-or somewhere else?

Even if Brereton was right, and these were merciful deaths, there was no dignity in lying in a ditch to be found by some passerby… Why had the murderer cared about the man-but had no qualms about abandoning the corpse?

This, Rutledge thought, was the major problem with Brereton’s theory.

A motorcar approached from Marling, a last errant ray of sun catching the windscreen and flashing across the trees in a bright glare. Uncertain whether the driver had seen him, Rutledge stepped nearer the verge of the road, waiting for him to pass. Instead, the vehicle slowed, and stopped; after a moment, a man got out, retrieved his crutches, and with difficulty walked toward the Londoner.

Rutledge could see that Bella Masters was in the rear seat, a dark shape whose hat was all that betrayed her gender. She stayed where she was, behind the chauffeur.

As Raleigh approached him, Rutledge waited to see how the man would open the conversation.

Instead, Masters paused to look at the stone columns and the flattened grass of the drive.

“Someone’s been here,” he said. “The New Zealander, I expect. Someone’s taken over a whole floor at The Plough. With that kind of money he won’t think much of the Mortons’ estate.”

“You’ve met him?” Rutledge asked, curious. “I thought he was from Leeds.”

“Leeds? That could be. The staff was atwitter when we stopped at the hotel for tea. You’d have thought God Himself had arrived. Service was terrible.”

“I saw the luggage,” Rutledge said. “He’s here to stay, at a guess.”

“Yes, well, it’s a wonderful facade, all this fuss, isn’t it? Even if he’s poor as a church mouse. An entrance, an actor once told me, is half the play.”

There was a silence. Masters moved nearer Rutledge and regarded him thoughtfully.

“Why are you so fascinated by Matthew Sunderland?”

“I’ve told you. I was one of the men assigned to the Shaw case.”

“And that was disposed of. Six years ago.”

“So it was,” Rutledge answered neutrally. “It was an interesting trial. I should think it would be one that Sunderland himself would have talked about from time to time.”

Raleigh stared at him, the flush of anger mottling his face like a change of skin.

“Damn you! You know as well as I do that he barely finished the trial before he was taken ill! That was the last case he’d have enjoyed discussing with anyone!”

Stunned, Rutledge said, “I didn’t-he showed no sign of ill health. It was a classic performance!”

“You didn’t know him! You didn’t have any concept of what he was capable of. How could you judge a man like that? You weren’t fit to wipe his boots-”

“Perhaps you’re more sensitive to his problems because you did know him well. And therefore saw lapses the rest of us-”

Masters cut him short. “Are you trying to overturn the Shaw decision? It won’t do you much good. The villain’s dead. Leave him to rot!”

“I’m trying to get at the truth,” Rutledge told him bluntly. “I’d like to know whether the evidence is as strong in hindsight as it was at the time.”

He thought Masters was going to have an apoplexy. “He was my mentor, the man I admired more than any other. I won’t stand by and watch you destroy his reputation for the sake of some”-he fumbled for a word- “some modern desire to cleanse the conscience-”

“Hardly that-” Or was it? “What if there is new evidence?”

“ New evidence? Are you mad? How could there be any new evidence!”

“A locket has turned up. One that was included in the list of Mrs. Satterthwaite’s possessions but was never found.”

Masters was silenced. The color began to drain from his face, leaving him white and shaken.

“I won’t let you do this, do you understand? You’re easily broken, and I shall take pleasure in arranging it.”

“Break me if you like,” Rutledge answered. “Will that change the truth?”

Raleigh walked several steps away, his crutches stabbing the earth, then turned back. “It was a fair and just verdict.”

“I’m sure it was. With the information available. What if that’s changed? Would you rather Sunderland’s reputation stand undeservedly?”

“You don’t know what he went through, you don’t know anything about the pain and the courage and the sheer will that carried him through the last year of his life!”

Hamish said, “It’s no use. His mind’s made up.”

“I don’t want to destroy Sunderland. I want to find out if we misjudged Ben Shaw.”

“How very considerate of you. How very enlightened.” The words were chill and offensive.

“We aren’t going to solve this,” Rutledge replied. “If you like, I’ll sit down with you and present my findings. And you can be the judge.”

“No.”

“If you tell me that I’m wrong-”

“No.”

“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing more to discuss.”

Rutledge turned to walk back to his own motorcar.

Masters said, “Don’t walk away from me, Inspector.” It was a warning.

Rutledge half turned. “We have no common ground. It will do no good to savage each other.”

He walked on.

Masters said, “I know about your sister.” His voice was low, pitched not to carry beyond Rutledge’s ears.

Rutledge stopped, not sure he’d heard correctly.

He faced Raleigh Masters again. “You don’t even know my sister.”