A Fearsome Doubt (18 page)

It was a common enough threat—in many households, the police had replaced the devil as a deterrent to bad behavior. Rutledge smiled.

Following her own train of thought, Margaret Shaw said, “I don’t know why Mrs. Cutter cared for Papa. He was whimsical. And I think she must have liked that.”

“How did Henry Cutter behave toward your mother?”

“Oh, he was always asking her advice. I think he admired Mama’s strength, and Papa liked Mrs. Cutter’s softness. She reminded him of growing up somewhere else, not Sansom Street. It was almost as if they’d all married the wrong people. I don’t expect to wed,” she added with a candidness that was a measure of her own lost childhood. “There’s too much heartache. It seldom comes out right!”

R
UTLEDGE DROVE
I
NSPECTOR
Dowling back to Marling. Halfway there the inspector began, “We don’t see many murders in this part of the country. Not like some of the towns, where there’s an uncertain element. Maidstone, for instance. Or Rochester. Dover sees more trouble, being a port where all kinds mix. The last murder in Marling was just before the war, a son who killed his father before the old fool could marry again and change his will. I understand that kind of violence. The son felt he was being cheated out of his inheritance, and the father was bent on having a pretty young wife.
She
knew a good thing when she saw it, and if there was blame anywhere, it lay at her door. She was greedy, not to put too fine a point on it. She saw the father could give her more than the son. Without her stirring up the pair of them, that farmer would be alive today. But the courts can’t take such behavior into account. If they could, a jury would have hanged her along with the dead man’s son.”

It was, in some ways, the story of the Shaws. A wife wanting what she couldn’t have . . .

Rutledge said, “It’s straightforward, at least. I once had an investigation that hinged on a lamp. Where it had actually been placed before the crime. Through a window the murderer had seen something in the room that triggered an explosive anger, jealous anger. But only because the lamp’s light illuminated it in that position. Once the lamp was moved, we saw nothing out of the ordinary. There was nothing to give her away.”

Dowling glanced at Rutledge. “Where’s
our
lamp, then?” he asked. “I understand what you’re saying, but I can’t apply it to our situation.”

“The roads,” Rutledge answered. “Each of the dead men had a family at home. Other eyes to see whatever transpired. It put the men out of reach, in a sense. But they were always accessible along the road. The question is, what drew each of these victims into the killer’s net? Circumstance? Opportunity? Or trickery?”

Dowling turned his head to consider the road behind them. They had nearly reached the trees where one of the victims had been discovered. Taylor. The first . . .

“It can’t be theft,” the inspector said, ticking off the possibilities on his fingers. “These three had little worth stealing. No one stole what they did have. And no one stands to gain from their deaths, as far as I can tell. The murders took place on different roads, different nights. That’s a vote for opportunity, not circumstance. They had the war in common, of course.”

“And there’s Jimsy Ridger,” Rutledge said.

“If someone was looking for Jimsy, he wouldn’t have to kill a man to ask where to find him.”

“He might kill a man he thought would warn Ridger.”

“Then I think it’s time we found out where Ridger is, and what he knows about this business.”

18

I
N THE EVENT, NEITHER
D
OWLING NOR
R
UTLEDGE HAD TO
search far for the missing Jimsy Ridger.

Sergeant Gibson had left a message at The Plough. It read,
“In regard to the man you want: he’s not in London. Rumor has it he’s dead. My guess is that he’s in hiding. No one is prepared to say where.”

Rutledge’s reaction was,
I’m not surprised. . . .

Hamish said, “Aye. It stands to reason he’d go to ground, if there’s someone looking for him. And the man searching for Ridger may be a step ahead of you. He may ken that Ridger is in Kent . . .”

“Yes, it makes sense.” Rutledge took the stairs two at a time and spent the next half an hour finishing his notes about the conversation with Grimes in Seelyham. He debated driving to Canterbury to look up Miss Whelkin, and then decided against it. She would be home again in a few days.

Closing the notebook, he sought out Sergeant Burke and asked the man to draw a rough map of Marling.

I
T WAS NEARLY TEATIME
when Rutledge pulled into the drive at the home of Lawrence Hamilton and his wife, Lydia. They had been his hosts when he met Raleigh Masters, and Rutledge was certain they would know as much about this part of Kent as Richard Mayhew had done.

He was surprised to find that Bella Masters was already there. She looked tired, unhappy, but her face brightened as Lydia Hamilton welcomed the newcomer and offered him a cup of tea.

Mrs. Masters said, after the courtesies had been observed, “I’ve come to invite Lydia and her husband to dine with us tonight. But they have another engagement. Could I persuade you to join us, Mr. Rutledge? There will be only six, I’m afraid. Tom Brereton, Mrs. Crawford, Elizabeth Mayhew, and you, but I can promise you a fine dinner and lively conversation.”

Lydia’s face, turned away from Mrs. Masters, pleaded with Rutledge to accept.

It was not common for a policeman to be invited to dine. It was, indeed, a measure of Mrs. Masters’s desperation that a stranger and a lowly inspector would be acceptable at her table.

For his own reasons, Rutledge agreed. “I’ll call for Elizabeth, if you like,” he said.

“That would be lovely!”

Lydia put in, “I think I hear Lawrence—”

Rutledge said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll meet him in the hall. There are a few questions I’d like to put to him.”

She nodded, and then a look of alarm spread over her face. As if his words had touched a wellspring of concern that was swiftly hidden.

He thought ironically that it was the policeman she dreaded. . . .

Lawrence was coming down the stairs when Rutledge stepped into the hall and shut the sitting room door behind him.

Hamilton held out his hand and greeted him with a smile. “I hear we have another guest.”

“Mrs. Masters. I’ve accepted a dinner invitation in your stead,” Rutledge answered lightly. “In return, I need a favor.”

“I hope to heaven Bella’s made peace with her cook! Or you’ll be back demanding my firstborn,” Hamilton retorted humorously, leading Rutledge into a small study. Closing the door, he said in a more serious tone, “What’s this about? The murders? I’d heard you’d come down to help the local people. Any progress?”

“None.” He took the chair that Hamilton indicated and looked around the room. It was a study-cum-office, where open law books and stacks of paper indicated an ongoing brief.

Hamilton gestured wryly and said, “I can’t find a reference. It’s there somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on it. I asked Raleigh if he recalled it, but he said I’d earn my keep if I find it on my own.”

Rutledge said, “He may have forgotten it himself.”

Hamilton laughed. “The man’s memory is famous. Matthew Sunderland taught him that, early on. To cultivate a good memory. I sometimes think that Raleigh would be pleased to discover that Sunderland was his father. It would be the crowning moment of his life.”

“Tell me about Sunderland.”

“He was one of the best men of his day. Toward the end there was something that wasn’t noticeable early on. An arrogance. A certainty that he was never wrong. It persuaded judges, sometimes. I never discovered whether this was a pretense or if Sunderland actually believed strongly in his own judgment. Needless to say, he was convincing as hell! Did you ever work with him?”

“The Shaw case. And one other before that. Most of my cases were not of a caliber to rate Matthew Sunderland, K.C.”

“Yes, well, he was a watchword for years. Almost an assurance of conviction, when he was prosecuting. Now, tell me, what is it you need from me? Certainly not the past history of a dead man.”

But it had been what Rutledge needed. Still, he said, “I wonder if you recall someone named Jimsy Ridger.”

“Good God, Jimsy was an eel. Convicting him of anything was impossible. He never came my way, of course, but I’ve heard enough tales about him. Most particularly since he’d spent a goodly part of his life where I lived, and no one in London let me forget it. He wasn’t actually from our part of Kent, but he had a habit of popping up here at the least likely moments.”

“Tell me about him. Not his criminal history, but what you know of him.”

Hamilton got up to offer Rutledge a glass of whisky and then, sipping his own, said ruminatively, “He came with the hop pickers. A wild lad, with no sense of fear. And no one, really, to look out for him. Consequently he fell in with the wrong people. Or they fell in with him.”

It was almost word for word the description that Sergeant Burke had given Rutledge. “I need a picture of him as a man,” he said, studying the amber liquid in his glass but not drinking.

“I doubt that anyone can give you that. Jimsy was as charming as a snake, and as quick. But no one got through the charm into the person behind it. He had more energy than most, and had learned to skirt the law with impunity. Underneath the surface, I always thought he was lonely. No, lonely isn’t the word. I think—” He paused, trying to find the right explanation. “Jimsy was one of those people who never successfully formed friendships. He was too devious and too questionable in his character for most people to like him. He never got close to anyone that I know of. And as a result, he was dangerous. There were no ties, you see, to hold him. In a way, he was like Matthew Sunderland—odd though it might sound. He walked in his own shadow, and showed the world only what he thought it fit for the world to see.”

R
UTLEDGE STOPPED BY
Elizabeth Mayhew’s house to leave a message that he’d be collecting her in time to drive to the Masterses’ house for dinner.

She was waiting for him in the hall, when he came to lift the knocker on her door later in the evening. She opened it herself, and said, “Ian, I could have had myself driven over, you needn’t have come!”

“I came because I’ll enjoy your company more than my own thoughts, tonight.”

She looked up at him as he closed the door behind her and ushered her down the walk to his car. A fitful moon slipped in and out of the trees and a bank of thinning clouds, its thin crescent cold in the November air.

“You’re tired, aren’t you, Ian? I wish you hadn’t let Bella persuade you to dine with them. Come to that, I shouldn’t have, either. But Melinda Crawford will be there, and I couldn’t let her down.”

“Nor I.” He settled her into the motorcar with a rug for her knees as before, and then went to crank the engine. As he climbed in beside her, she sighed. It was as if she had had other plans that she’d changed, and regretted having to do so.

Rutledge said as they went down the drive, “Did you ever see the Tarrant exhibition in London before the war? There was a painting there that caused a great deal of comment. The name of it was
Tristan
.”

“Richard liked it. I wasn’t fond of it,” she replied. “He was drawn to flying, you know. I thought the painting made it seem far too glamorous. Or to put it another way, I wasn’t eager to praise anything that would encourage his attraction.” She laughed bitterly. “I was afraid that flying machines would take him from me. I couldn’t even imagine then that war would do that, and I’d be helpless to prevent it. It’s not wise to love too well.”

Hamish said, “She didna’ ken what you were asking about yon portrait.”

It was true—Elizabeth had taken Rutledge’s question at face value, remembering her husband, not reminded of anyone else.

He said, as if moving on, “No, not wise at all. But Richard was intrigued by the concept of flight. He’d told me once that he would like to see the Downs as a bird could. And how the Weald stretched beyond the horizon we were limited to. He was intrigued with maps, and this was the ultimate opportunity to draw the face of the earth.”

“He once talked for hours with Melinda about the project to map India. I think, under different circumstances, he’d have been among the first to volunteer. He was drawn to adventure. Perhaps I never really had him in my heart the way I thought I did.”

“He loved you very deeply. It made dreaming very safe, because you were there to come home to.”

She moved restlessly. “I’d rather not talk about Richard just now.”

He changed the subject, and as they drove through the night reached a truce in whatever silent war lay between them.

R
ALEIGH
M
ASTERS GREETED
his guests with a chilly courtesy.

Rutledge saw his wife glance at him several times, an uneasiness in her eyes. But their host was pleasant and made an effort to draw out his guests. They were seated in a drawing room where the elegance was growing shabby around the edges, as if there was no money to renew the drapes or the gilding in the plastered ceiling. The house, Georgian and foursquare, possessed a beautiful staircase in the entrance hall and a collection of exquisite Venetian glass displayed in cabinets between the doors. The light from the lamps caught the colors and gave them a depth that was jewel-like. Whether the collection was valuable or not, Rutledge couldn’t judge, but the quality was there, in shape and design.

Bella had gestured toward the cabinets as she ushered him into the drawing room and said diffidently, “My father’s hobby. Glass. My mother traveled to Italy every winter for her health, and in his free time, my father roamed the old markets in Venice, searching for unexpected treasures. Raleigh doesn’t care for Italy.”

Nor for the glass, Rutledge thought.

Melinda Crawford, looking rather tired, greeted him with warmth and kissed Elizabeth’s cheek as if delighted to see her. Brereton, standing by the hearth, shook hands with Rutledge and asked quietly, “Any progress?”

“Early days yet,” Rutledge told him. It was the standard formula. But even as he spoke the words, Hamish was reminding him how empty they were.

Brereton said, “Kent has always had an independent spirit. My guess is that whatever people may suspect, they won’t point fingers.”

Rutledge was saved from answering by a query from Elizabeth regarding a mutual friend in London. Twenty minutes later, as they were finishing their sherry, dinner was announced, and Rutledge found himself escorting Mrs. Crawford. She pinched his arm, as if in warning, as they followed their host and hostess through to the dining room.

“Even if this meal is inedible, you must swallow every mouthful for Bella’s sake!” she hissed under her breath.

He smiled and said, “I’ll try.”

But it appeared the cook was intent on making amends. The roast of pork, seasoned with rosemary, was as delicious as any Rutledge had ever eaten. As the conversation flowed around him, he listened to two threads that seemed to intertwine and then separate.

Local gossip of the ordinary variety, to be heard at any country dinner table in England—and an undercurrent of speculation about the newcomer from Leeds who was buying one of the larger houses in Marling. Whether he intended to live there or if it was purchased for a son or daughter, whether he was the sort one would wish to meet or the sort one ignored.

“There’s money,” Bella was saying. “And I hear from John Sable that he’s renovating the house and gardens.”

John Sable owned a small construction firm in Helford, Brereton explained to Rutledge across the table.

“He won’t come cheaply,” Elizabeth responded. “I’d asked John about working on the drains, and he sent a note quoting an exorbitant sum.”

Brereton said, “Too bad our Leeds friend’s not interested in the old property out on the road to Seelyham. The one with the stone gates. Shame to see it go to rack and ruin. But I suppose we must wait on the lawyers to sort out who inherits.”

Bella nodded. “I remember going to a party there, oh, well before the war. It was Mrs. Morton’s seventieth birthday, and her husband wanted to cheer her up a bit. There were lovely old pieces in that house. I remember she was mourning the fact that there was no one to pass them on to. Only a distant relative out in New Zealand, I think it was. Influenza took both of them last year. And the house has stood empty ever since. There’ll be damp and dry rot, and heaven only knows what else, before it’s finished. And who’ll pay for that, I ask you?”