Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

Burke nodded to the two men manning the block across the road, and climbed into the motorcar beside the doctor. Rutledge could feel the springs dip under Burke’s weight, and he felt, too, the claustrophobic sense of humanity crowding in around him, cutting off escape and air, thrusting Hamish into the forefront of his brain.

Burke was saying, “-It’s not likely we’ll find our man at the cottage, sir; by now he’s more than likely well on his way to wherever it is he goes to earth.”

“That’s as may be,” Dowling answered sharply. “But this is the closest we’ve been to him. We’ll make the best of it.”

Silence fell, and the sound of the motor was clear in the fading light, a reminder of speed. But not fast enough to satisfy Rutledge, as Hamish grumbled incessantly from the direction of Sergeant Burke’s lap. Rutledge drove grimly, increasing his speed in spite of the wet and rutted road.

He had passed fields, several farms, and was coming up on the small stand of trees that led to Brereton’s cottage when Dowling said, “We ought to pull up here. No need to spoil whatever prints may be there.”

Rutledge stopped the car, and waited as they all alighted. As the cool air blew through the open vehicle, he could feel relief sweeping over him as if a veil were being lifted. The chiding voice in his head subsided, and he shook himself like a dog, half a shiver, half a shudder.

Getting out to follow the others, he kept his eyes on the road. Among the wagon tracks, droppings, imprints of tires, and the footprints of a man in heavy boots, there was nothing of interest. Their killer would have been too clever to leave his mark in the mud when he could walk on the grassy verge-he’d already shown himself to be careful and elusive… adept at escaping detection.

Rutledge caught the other men up as they turned in the gate. The bicycle was gone, and he pointed this out to Inspector Dowling.

“Then he’s well ahead of us, I’m afraid,” Dowling answered with a sigh.

The door was ajar, apparently the way Adams had left it in his haste to report to the police. A neat stack of firewood covered with a tarpaulin stood to the east of the house, and Adams must have looked in to ask for his money after delivering it.

As they began to push the door wider, Lucinda came to greet them, her tail high as she made a sound of welcome. Sergeant Burke scooped her up and held her against his chest as he stepped into the cottage.

The room was not wrecked, as Rutledge had expected, but there were unarguable signs of a struggle-books scattered, a lamp and chairs overturned, a table on end, and what appeared to be blood drying in front of the hearth; Lucinda had stepped in it at some point: her prints led across the patch and back onto the bare floorboards.

There was also a smear of blood on one wall and streaks on an overturned chair, drops scattered here and there as dark spots on polished surfaces and the floor.

Of Brereton, alive or dead, there was no sign.

But most telling was a bottle of wine spilled on the table and running down to puddle on the edge of a bit of carpeting. Two glasses sat next to the bottle, one of them still a quarter full.

As Sergeant Burke, putting down the cat, moved heavily toward the other rooms calling Brereton’s name, Dr. Pugh saw the wine and went over to lift it, sniffing the contents.

“Laudanum?” Rutledge asked.

“I shouldn’t be surprised, but I’ll have to test it to be sure.” The doctor put out a finger as if considering tasting the wine in the glass, then prudently changed his mind.

Dowling was squatting by the pool of blood on the hearth. Weaver, following Burke, looked rather green.

Rutledge said, “Judging by the blood we’ve seen so far, how seriously wounded was Brereton?”

“It would depend on where the wound was located. Not an artery, of course, there’s no pattern to show that. Still-” Pugh turned to walk on into the kitchen and stopped short. “Look. It would appear someone dragged himself across the floor here!”

Burke was already examining the drying streaks. “But they stop just outside the kitchen door there,” he pointed out. “And Mr. Brereton’s body isn’t in the house.”

Rutledge stepped around the doctor and looked at the smears. Were they drag marks, where something heavy had been pulled toward the door? Or had someone crawled, half dragging himself, toward the only means of escape?

“The question is,” he said, “where’s Brereton? Trying to hide in the woods-or already half buried in the leaves somewhere out there? Would the killer have taken the time to hide a corpse? Or was he interrupted by Adams arriving on the scene, and Brereton got away?”

Inspector Dowling, scanning the trees beyond the garden, said, “We’ll need a score of men to search out there.”

Sergeant Burke reminded his inspector, “We can’t wait for a search party. He might be bleeding to death right now.”

Dr. Pugh said, “I’ll make a cursory search.” With the constable at his heels, he stepped beyond the smears and out the door, moving along the grassy path that bordered the small kitchen garden and the herb bed. Stopping at a garden shed, Pugh peered inside, pulling the door open only as far as needed. He looked up again at the men in the kitchen, shaking his head. Taking care to observe where he put his feet, he moved rapidly toward the boundary of the cottage and the beginning of the wood. “Nothing so far,” he called to the watching men. “I can’t see anything to indicate there’s been a body dragged along here. Still-even if Brereton had passed out, he might have come to his senses and managed to walk away under his own power.”

Burke stepped back into the house. “The odd thing is,” he said, “that this attack happened well before dark today. Not like the others. Sir, should someone be sent along to Mr. Masters’s house, to be sure there’s been no trouble there? It’s little more than a mile by the road.”

“With servants in the house, Sergeant, they shouldn’t be in immediate danger. Our priority right now is Brereton. Unless there’s a path that Brereton might have taken through the woods, trying to reach help?”

Burke shouted the question to Weaver, still searching, and got the reply “No, sir, no path that I can see.” Unsatisfied, Burke said, “I’ll just have a look on my own, sir, as it’s getting on toward dark.”

Rutledge crossed to the sink in the kitchen and saw that there were no dishes waiting to be washed up, possibly indicating that Brereton cleared away after his luncheon. And the stove was banked. But then Brereton often dined with the Masterses rather than make his own evening meal. The buffer between Raleigh’s temper and his wife’s anxiety… A high price for a good dinner.

He tried to picture the scene as it might have occurred. Had Brereton answered the door, expecting to find Adams arriving with the wood? And instead was greeted by someone else standing there, smiling and expecting to be invited in?

Hamish said, “You canna’ tell. The fire’s no’ lit, he may have been in the garden, clearing out a place for the wood.”

Rutledge called to Dowling, who was inspecting the rest of the house. “How trustworthy is this man Adams?”

“Completely, I’d say. Church sexton, thirty years a farmer. His sister is the housekeeper to the rector. I’d as soon believe Sergeant Burke was a murderer.”

Lucinda came to rub against Rutledge’s legs, recognizing a familiar scent.

“She’s verra’ calm,” Hamish said.

“Yes, I’d observed that as well,” Rutledge answered him thoughtfully. “But then whatever happened here is over. There’s nothing to frighten her now-no loud noises, no angry, raised voices.”