Charles Todd - A Fearsome Doubt

Rutledge had known Richard Mayhew longer than Elizabeth had, long before Elizabeth had come into the picture. In his youth, he’d played tennis here with Richard, and gone for long walks over the Downs, following old tracks and pathways whose origins were lost in time. It had seemed odd, when the summer light lingered late into the evening, to think of the ghosts whose footsteps they were following. Angles, Saxons, Romans-God knew what other now nameless tribes had passed this way. Richard had called it the spell of Midsummer. “The poets are always writing about it. I daresay the ancients worshiping the sun thought this a magic time.”

And so it had been. Before the war had come and swept it all away.

Now the house seemed sad without Richard, and Rutledge found himself wondering if it wouldn’t be wiser if Elizabeth closed it for a time and took a smaller place in London. Away from the memories. But perhaps those memories were comforting…

As his own were not.

She was saying, “And I must apologize-but we’ve been invited out to dine, and I couldn’t tell them no. With the Hamiltons-you remember them?-and of course Mrs. Crawford will be there. She’s coming up from Sussex, just to see you.”

Melinda Crawford was one of the most remarkable women he’d ever met. As a child she’d survived the siege of Lucknow, during the Great Indian Mutiny of 1857. An inveterate and fearless traveler, she had seen more of the world than most men. Rutledge had always been immensely fond of her. Her memory was as sharp as ever it had been, her tongue as tart, and her company as charming.

Elizabeth, reading his expression, said wryly, “Richard adored her, too. I think she took his death harder than I did.”

It would be an unexpected treat to see Mrs. Crawford again. But not tonight. He was too tired and his mood too dark for polite conversation. “It was a rather long drive-” he began, and then stopped. “Would you like to go?”

She made a face. “Not really. But Bella Masters has been having a very difficult time, and we’ve been trying to cheer her up a bit. Raleigh will come to dine, but Bella can’t get him out of the house otherwise. She hasn’t said, but I have the awful feeling that he’s dying. And nobody quite knows what to do.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“A very stubborn infection. It cost him his toes, and then his foot, and now he’s about to lose his leg close to the knee. Blood poisoning. He has some sort of apparatus to wear in place of his foot, but he hates it. Bella tries to pretend all is well, which doesn’t help. It’s Lydia Hamilton’s turn to entertain them, and she couldn’t make up her numbers. I’m afraid Raleigh isn’t always very good company. We’re the martyrs thrown to the lions.”

“In that case, by all means, we’ll go,” Rutledge assured her.

She seemed relieved, but said only, “Then come into the sitting room and we’ll have our tea in comfort, before it’s time to dress. I’ve something to show you-”

Henrietta, the spaniel, had just presented Elizabeth with puppies, five of them, still blind and squirming and noisy. They lay in a box near the hearth, and Henrietta rose to greet Rutledge before warily allowing him to admire her family. Elizabeth was on the floor beside the box, clearly entranced, giving him the name of each tiny ball of fur.

He could hardly tell one from another, except by the liver-colored spots, but dutifully gave his attention to each in turn, while Henrietta licked his hand and watched attentively as Elizabeth lifted her brood one by one and held the newborns up for his inspection. He found himself thinking that Elizabeth herself would have made a wonderful mother, but there had never been any children in her marriage. Richard had been philosophical about it. “Early days,” he’d said. But time had run out.

When the maid brought tea, Elizabeth went to wash her hands and Henrietta climbed gratefully back into her box, nosing each of her treasures, as if to reassure herself that none had gone missing. Rutledge leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Hamish, in the back of his mind, was saying something about Richard. He ignored it, and tried to put London and the Yard out of his thoughts for the evening. It would not do to drag the Shaws into Elizabeth’s uncomplicated world, and yet Rutledge found himself wishing he could talk to her as he would have done to her husband. A barrister, Richard would have understood Rutledge’s dilemma and heard the story out without criticism or comment. Elizabeth would worry over Ben Shaw’s innocence as well as his guilt, and leave the subject more tangled than it was…

She came back into the room just then and, seeing him with his eyes closed, said briskly, “You need your tea!” and proceeded to pour him a cup.

Hamish said, “A wee dram o’ whisky would do more good.”

The whisky came at the Hamiltons, a stiff drink that Lawrence Hamilton handed him with the admonition “You’ll need this!”

Elizabeth had gone upstairs to speak to Lydia, and the two men were alone in the drawing room.

Rutledge said, “I hear Masters hasn’t been well.” He had met the man a time or two in the courts, but hardly knew him at all.

“No, he hasn’t. And it’s been difficult for him. Not only the loss of his limb, but the constant pain and the dragging down of his spirits. He had to give up the law, you know, and that was possibly worse than amputation. He loved his work.” Lawrence was square, fair, with a ruddy complexion. “Still, he’s a man of uncertain moods. Always was, for all I know, but now it’s noticeable. Lydia and Elizabeth and a few other friends have tried to make his illness bearable for Bella-”

He broke off as the maid ushered in another guest. Melinda Crawford swept into the room with grace, a tall woman, slim now with age, and wearing the evening dress of another reign: gray silk, with lace high to the throat and binding the sleeves at her wrists. Her white hair, piled high in shining waves, was still thick, and the handsome blue eyes were unclouded. The beautiful ebony cane in her left hand was more affectation than necessity.

She greeted her host with warmth, and then regarded Rutledge with interest. “You survived the war, then. Why haven’t you been to see me?”

Rutledge answered, “First I had to find my way back into civilian life.” But it was Hamish that he had wanted to hide from her. Melinda Crawford had seen war, had nursed the wounded and comforted the dying when she was only ten; her experience was so vast that he had been afraid she would instantly read his secret in his eyes.

He went to kiss her cheek, and she held him off for a moment, studying his face. “Ah. And have you found your way?” She let him kiss her then, and took his arm as he led her to the small French love seat.

“I don’t know. I expect you’ll tell me?”

She laughed gently. “War has done nothing for your manners, I see. But it’s good to have you back. Lawrence, is that sherry I see at your elbow?”

He brought her a glass and she sipped it. “One of the privileges of age,” she declared, “is to be able to drink a glass or two of wine without a lecture on moderation. This is quite good, Lawrence. I shall require the name of your wine merchant.”

Lawrence chuckled. “Indeed. He’s the same as yours.”

“Ah, but he never treats me as well.”

Hamish, taken aback by Melinda Crawford, was silent, trying to make up his mind about her. Rutledge, drawing up a chair next to the love seat, said, “I’ve missed you.”

“At my age,” she agreed, “four years is a very long time. I wasn’t sure I would live to see you again.” She studied his face once more. “But the wicked seem to thrive in this world, and I’m still here. Thank you for your letters, and the books of poems. I treasured both.”