Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

And the fear, he thought but didn’t say aloud. She wouldn’t hear a word against Hauser, in her foolish certainty that he was all she believed him to be. But beneath that determined defense was, Rutledge knew, the niggling fear that she could be wrong.

When he didn’t at first respond, she went on. “I love you dearly, I always have. I always will. But I’m not Richard’s wife any longer. We can’t go back to that old comfortable life again-and you can’t protect me from the consequences of his death. I have to make my own way.” Then she added forlornly, “It’s just that nothing seems to be working out the way it should-nothing seems to be right- ”

Lydia admitted them to the Hamilton house, startled by Rutledge’s grimness and the pallor of Elizabeth’s face. She led them to the room that Hamilton used for his study and, after a nod from her husband, went out again, shutting the door behind her.

Without preamble, Rutledge said, “Do you know where I can find your client?”

“He said he was going to Maidstone. Something about searching there for a relative’s grave.”

Jimsy Ridger’s, more than likely. Or looking for any of Ridger’s surviving family, who might have that damned cup?

“Is he coming back here?”

“He’s promised to return in the morning.” Lawrence Hamilton pulled out his watch and looked at the face. “It’s a long journey. He was hoping to find a lorry or a carter going that direction. Why? What’s happened?”

“It’s Brereton. He’s missing. And there’re indications of a violent struggle in his cottage. The police are there now, mounting a search. I want to find Hauser before Inspector Dowling thinks about looking for him.”

“Good God!” Hamilton was on his feet, staring at Rutledge. “You’re not telling me that this man could have anything to do with Brereton going missing? Elizabeth-you assured me he was perfectly respectable!”

Elizabeth said, “I’ve already been through this with Ian. No, he just thinks it’s best to find him-”

Over her head, Rutledge’s eyes met Hamilton’s. “Keep her here,” he ordered. “I’ll know where to reach you both-”

“Yes. Yes, I understand. You’ll send word as soon as you can?”

“As soon as there’s anything to tell you.”

He turned and was gone, leaving behind him a flurry of questions, Elizabeth’s voice higher with worry, Lydia coming in, begging someone to explain what had happened.

Hamish said, as Rutledge put on his headlamps, “Ye’re no’ going to Maidstone! You’ll never find him!”

“No. I’ve a feeling he may be closer than that. Where he was before. The Morton house.”

Rutledge went back to the crossroads, and turned for the Morton estate on the Seelyham road. In the distance behind him he could see the lights of another vehicle-Weaver, very likely, ferrying men back and forth to Brereton’s cottage in commandeered motorcars.

Rutledge turned through the stone gates, driving to the stableyard and leaving his motorcar in the shadow of one of the sheds. The grass was still thick and high around it in the beams of his headlamps-the Morton motorcar was still inside. As he switched the lamps off, it seemed that absolute darkness fell, blacker than before.

There was no moon and the night was quiet. The crows, long since gone to roost in trees beyond the house, were silent. And the house loomed black, bulky, and uninviting.

Walking briskly, he went to the kitchen door.

Inspector Dowling-or someone-had latched it more securely now.

Working by feel, he spent several minutes on the length of wire, until he had it open. If Hauser was indeed here, he’d already heard the motorcar coming up the drive. He’d be waiting, but not in the kitchen. Otherwise he’d never have rewired the door so firmly. Rutledge’s efforts had given him time to prepare, to select his own arena for confrontation.

If he was here. And not in Maidstone, minding his own business.. ..

The kitchen was in darkness.

“Hauser? It’s Rutledge.”

He stood there, listening to his words trapped against the walls and ceiling. There was no response. After a time, he began to move around the room. His probing hands, outstretched, found the lamp. It was cold when he touched the chimney. The matches were just beside it. Nearly tripping over a chair as he stepped closer to work with the shade and the wick, Rutledge swore silently.

Light bloomed, a bright and golden glow that sent the shadows in the kitchen fleeing into corners.

There was no sign of occupation in this room. No food on the table, the pitcher back on the sideboard where it belonged, the bedding returned to whatever room it had come from. But then a man like Hauser wouldn’t be caught twice like a rat in a hole.

Rutledge waited until the wick had caught well, and then he took up the lamp and moved out into the passage. He could hear his own breathing in the confined space.

Swinging open the door, he said again, “Hauser? It’s Rutledge.”

The light preceded him out into the hall, picking out the sheets and the shrouded furnishings, giving an odd life to the long flight of stairs, and to the rooms he walked into one after another. He was clearly visible in the aura of the lamp, and took care to give no appearance of hostility.

It was an eerie experience, the silence fraught with nothing, the urgent whisper of Hamish’s voice in his head, his quiet footfalls as he moved slowly, carefully, examining any place large enough to hide someone. The lamp was growing heavier in his hand, the heat warming his face.

Anyone in the kitchen could have heard him fumbling with the latch-anyone in the house would have heard him stumbling against the chair. And there were many ways to disappear here. If Hauser was innocent, why should he hide? But then he’d learned to his cost that the police were not as sympathetic as Elizabeth Mayhew had been…

Rutledge stood in the hall and called Hauser’s name again, then listened to the stillness around him. After a moment he walked on, methodically investigating, making certain that each room was empty before moving on to the next.

He was beginning to think he’d been wrong. That Hauser wasn’t here.

Rutledge climbed the stairs, no longer on guard, yet unwilling to stop until he was certain. He went into the first of the bedrooms, found nothing, and moved on. In the third, deep inside a man’s wardrobe, was a small valise. He set down the lamp and opened the bag. Inside were personal items, clean clothing, a pipe and some tobacco, and a worn photograph of a smiling woman standing by the gate of a barnlike house, her fair hair shining in the sun. And documents in the name of one Gunter Manthy, of the town of Gronigen, in Holland. On a square of paper someone had sketched a likeness of a chased silver cup, with details laboriously added. It was very convincing.

A prop-or an heirloom?

Hauser had never really left this house. He had given himself up-but he had concealed his belongings, including the photograph, where they wouldn’t readily be found. The safest place he could think of. Someone had cleared away the bedding and food in the kitchen, to give the impression the house was no longer occupied. Allaying any suspicion that he might return.

Which meant he expected to come back and retrieve his possessions.

Had Hauser gone to Maidstone, just as Elizabeth believed he would? In the slim hope that Jimsy Ridger had passed that silver cup on to someone in his family?

“Then what’s become of Brereton?” Hamish asked. “If yon German is still alive and out of harm’s way?”

“A very pressing question now!”

He was at the end of the passage on the second floor when he heard something. The sound traveled far in the empty, silent house.