A Fearsome Doubt (7 page)

“No different, in fact, from a doctor’s surgery, where one patient has hiccoughs and another has a gall bladder.” He lied with a lightness that he didn’t feel. But it earned him a smile from Elizabeth. He reached for the jam pot and said in a more cheerful voice, “What would you like to do this morning? I’m at your service.”

She bit her lip. “Would it be too much to ask—could you help me go through Richard’s things? I haven’t been able to face it alone. And that’s not why I asked you to come and stay—but this isn’t starting out as the morning I’d planned—and—” She broke off, distracted by what she was trying to say. But the words wouldn’t come, whatever they were.

“I’ll help you,” Rutledge told her. “On one condition. That we try not to make it morbid. For your sake, if not mine.”

She nodded. “I won’t cry on your shoulder. Nor you on mine. This is what one does after a death in the family, isn’t it? A practical matter. Before the moths get into the clothes.” It was her turn to try for lightness; she failed wretchedly. “Oh, hell!” she ended bitterly. “Why couldn’t he have come
home
!”

Hamish answered her, but of course she couldn’t hear the words.
“Because the guid died, and left only the dregs to make the new world . . .”

A
S IT TURNED
out, the morning passed uneventfully. The clothes hanging in the wardrobes no longer carried the scent of the man who had worn them in 1914. A faint mustiness had crept in, despite applications of lavender, and they had lost the personality that had given them vitality. Elizabeth folded and packed them as Rutledge took them out and handed them to her. The drawers of the chest were easier, their contents already folded, already in neat piles. In the top drawer, Elizabeth came upon a pair of cuff links engraved with initials. She held them for a moment in her hand, then passed them to Rutledge. “You gave him these—a wedding gift. Would you like them back to remember him by?”

He thanked her and took them. He’d liked Richard immensely, and had found in him a good friend. It was kind of his widow to remember that.

As the tall case clock in the hall struck the eleventh hour with its deep tolling chimes, they both paused in silence. Standing where they were, in the midst of their work, as a natural thing.

Rutledge thought he could hear the distant sound of the bagpipes that had buried Hamish MacLeod, but it was only a trick of the mind.

9

T
EA WITH
M
ELINDA
C
RAWFORD WAS TYPICAL.

She was in great spirits and refused to allow her guests to enjoy anything less. She chided Elizabeth for bringing a pot of honey, saying, “You know I’m not allowed to indulge in such things.” But the expression of delight in her eyes told them that she would enjoy it hugely.

Turning to Rutledge, she said, “Growing old is not for most people. It’s too trying. One daren’t eat this or do that, or even bend over to smell the garden flowers, for fear one’s back won’t straighten up again.”

“You seem to thrive on it, all the same,” he told her.

“Well, it’s most certainly better than the alternative.”

He looked around the room, found it unchanged from his last visit before going off to war. There were the personal possessions she’d brought home from India with her, beautiful carvings and silks, sandalwood fans that scented the warm air, and a small teak curio cabinet with ivory inlays, where she always kept smaller treasures. They were as fascinating as the stories she told about them.

It was, in a way, like stepping back into his own past, and he found it unexpectedly soothing.

She rang a little bell at her elbow, and tea appeared like magic, a wheeled cart with a silver service, fine china, and from somewhere, a single yellow rose. She had remembered that Rutledge liked cake, and had ordered two kinds, one with a lemon filling and the other with raisins.

Elizabeth was asked to pour, and as she passed a cup to Rutledge, Mrs. Crawford said, “You met Tom Brereton the other night at the Hamiltons. What did you think of him?”

Rutledge replied, “Sound enough. A friend, I take it, of Mr. and Mrs. Masters.”

“Brereton was to be Raleigh’s protégé and read the law. A brilliant future ahead of him. The war put a stop to that.”

Elizabeth said, “He’s nice. We had lunch one day, when he came into Marling to see the doctor. He regaled me with tales about the American Expeditionary forces. He’s a wonderful mimic.”

“I was thinking,” Mrs. Crawford said, “of leaving him something in my will. His life won’t be easy if he loses his sight.” She smiled. “Of course, it could be a long wait; I’m not in the mood to shuffle off my mortal coil. All the same, it would please me to help someone in need. Brereton doesn’t have a great deal of money, and independence when one is blind is important.”

“It would be a kindness, certainly,” Elizabeth said. “But do you know him well enough? Can you be sure it’s for the best?”

“I intend to know him better before making a final decision. But Ian here is a good judge of character. I’d like him to keep my notion in the back of his mind.”

Which, Rutledge thought, was a veiled suggestion that he use his resources at the Yard to verify Brereton’s worthiness. But why had she chosen to speak of this in front of Elizabeth?

The answer followed on the heels of the thought.

Elizabeth said, “Richard knew his family, of course. Tom’s grandfather served in India at one time. Did you ever meet him out there?”

Mrs. Crawford set her teacup on the tray. “We danced a waltz together in Agra. I was all of twelve, and terribly in love. He was quite dashing in his uniform.” But Rutledge had the strongest feeling that she was not telling the entire story.

As they finished their tea and he dutifully ate the last of the raisin cake, Mrs. Crawford turned to Elizabeth. “My dear, will you go up to my room and fetch the small box you’ll find on the desk there? I don’t like to ask Shanta to do it. Her bones are older than mine!”

Shanta was the Indian ayah who had become the housekeeper, much to the shock of the neighbors. She ruled the household with an iron hand, reminding recalcitrant staff that even the Dear Queen had had an Indian servant, and that Mrs. Crawford was following royal tradition. Rutledge wondered at times how Mrs. Crawford kept any servants at all, but they seemed to adore her and seldom left until they were carried out in their coffins.

As the door closed behind Elizabeth, Melinda Crawford turned to Rutledge and asked, “What is troubling you? That silly girl who turned you down for a diplomat?” She was referring to Jean, who had once been engaged to Rutledge and broke it off when he came home shell-shocked.

“No. Besides, she’s off to Canada with him.”

“Well, I hope he’s worthy of her—most diplomats are as shallow as she is.”

Rutledge laughed. Mrs. Crawford was nothing if not partisan when she cared for someone.

“Then it’s something else? Scotland? I had a long letter from your godfather. He’s been worried about you. He says the war has changed you. Well, war has changed us all, come to that. But you more than most, I think. It isn’t physical. I can count all your limbs. Therefore they must be in the mind, these wounds of yours. Too many bad memories? Or bad dreams?”

“A little of both,” he answered ruefully. “It will pass.” He had feared she would be able to see too clearly. He had been right.

“My dear, I lived through the Great Mutiny, when we all expected to die, and most unpleasantly. I’ve seen things no woman ought to see. No, nor a man either. It does not pass. One just grows—accustomed to it. One learns to crowd it out and put it into the farthest corner of one’s mind.”

He couldn’t explain to her that Hamish already lived there. “I try,” he said.

“You’re young. And a remarkably attractive man, did you know that? It’s time you married, had a family, and looked forward.”

“Elizabeth?” he asked, wondering if that was why Mrs. Crawford had sent her out of the room.

But Melinda Crawford shook her head, frowning. “No, Elizabeth isn’t right for you, my dear, and I hope you have no thoughts in that direction. Besides—I rather think her fancy lies elsewhere.”

His eyebrows flew up in surprise. Was that what had been on the tip of Elizabeth’s tongue at breakfast that morning, before the news of another murder had spoiled the chance to speak to him? He wondered. Bella Masters had also hinted at other attachments.

Watching his face, Melinda Crawford nodded in satisfaction. As if pleased to discover no attachment
here.
He knew she was fond of Elizabeth, and was amused.

Still, he was slow answering, unable to tell her why he could never offer marriage to any woman. How would she
—could
she—share his life with Hamish?

Then, hearing footsteps coming down the stairs, his hostess said in a low voice, rapidly and with an intensity that was unlike her, “Remember one thing, Ian. I have seen war at its worst. Nothing you can tell me will shock me or disturb me. If you ever find you need to talk about things best forgotten, I shall be here. For a time, at least. Don’t leave it too long!”

T
HE BOX, INLAID
marble, contained photographs of a garden party Mrs. Crawford had given nearly thirty years ago, and Rutledge recognized his parents among the faces, his father stooping over his mother with loving attention as he brought a plate of food to her table. His sister Frances, in a trailing lacy gown that all but swallowed her, stared at the camera with sober curiosity. Richard was there, a fair smiling child with girlish curls to his shoulders, his pose already exhibiting that sturdy, masculine grace that had made him a natural athlete and one of the finest cricket bowlers in Kent. Rutledge sat astride a pony, his shoes dangling high above the stirrups, his face half hidden by a pith helmet tipped over one eye. Mrs. Crawford, in an elegant hat that was a froth of ostrich feathers, was surreptitiously gripping his belt to keep him safely in the saddle.

It was typical of her to have planned an afternoon that would please both her guests. Elizabeth was poring over the photographs with exclamations of delight.

Rutledge, as keen an observer of human nature as Melinda Crawford, wondered if she had also set out to recapture a time far removed from war on this day of all days—as if she knew what was going through his mind. It was an extraordinary kindness.

He smiled and tried to remember that sunny afternoon for her sake, and succeeded in making her happy. Whether he had succeeded in convincing her that she had chased away all the dark shadows he couldn’t tell.

Hamish said, “I wouldna’ wager my pay on it.”

O
N HIS RETURN
to London on the evening of Wednesday, twelve November, Rutledge went directly to the Yard instead of his flat. At this hour, in a city the size of London, the police presence at the Yard was as strong as it was at midday, and he was greeted jovially as he strode down the passage to his office.

Sergeant Gibson, whose irascible manner concealed a very clever mind, said, “’Ware the wolf at the door!” as he passed.

And Inspector Raeburn paused to warn, “If you’ve come for peace and quiet, better leave now.”

Indeed, there was an air of orchestrated urgency about the place. Another inspector stopped long enough to say, “Old Bowels scents promotion. He’s been summoned to the Home Office tomorrow, possibly something to do with that rash of fires in Slough. They found a body when the ashes cooled this morning, and the hope is it’s the fire-setter, not a hapless victim. Seven firms have been burned out so far, and we’re frantically searching for a link connecting them.”

“You’ll find it soon enough,” Rutledge responded as he reached his office. With so many men out of work and wages very low as Britain tried to regain her capacity for peacetime industry, bitterness often turned to trouble, and labor disputes became volatile. Fire setting was not uncommon.

Hamish pointed out, referring to the Shaw investigation, “It isna’ a good time to bring up the past.”

It wasn’t. Rutledge shut his door against the mayhem and sat down at his desk. He had made notes from the Shaw file, and with luck there would be a few free hours in the morning to visit one or two of Mrs. Shaw’s neighbors. Discreetly.

He drew the sheets of paper out of his drawer and prepared to read through them again, seeking any missed clue. He had given himself two days to find a sense of perspective about the case. Instead, other emotions had driven it from his mind. And yet, with the commemoration of the Armistice safely behind him, almost as if turning a leaf in a mental book, he felt a return to a sense of balance.

Hamish, reflecting Rutledge’s tiredness from the drive out of Kent, doubted there would be anything worthwhile to be found in his notes. “For ye read them on Sunday, and you’re no’ so puir a policeman that you couldna’ see it was all trim and proper then.”

Still, Rutledge persevered.

But the pages were not in proper order. And an extraneous letter, an invitation to a retirement dinner for another officer, was in among them.

It had been lying on his blotter Sunday when he had walked out of the room. In plain sight.

He stared at the sheets in his hand, trying to remember how he had left them. Hamish was right about one thing—he wasn’t so poor a policeman that he would mix up his files like this. He had learned early on in his career that a meticulous attention to detail was essential to giving evidence in court. A muddled record of any investigation was a death knell—the defense would swoop down on the policeman like an eagle after prey, and tear him apart.

Pages two and five had been reversed. He sorted through them again. One. Five. Three. Four. Two. And just after five, that extraneous letter.

A thought struck him then. And with it came cold alarm.

Someone had been in his office and gone through his desk in his absence.

What had they been looking for? And in their search, had they taken note of this sheaf of pages—or simply set it aside while hunting for another file?

More to the point, what present inquiry of his was urgent enough that new information couldn’t wait three days for his return?

He thumbed through the copied notes again. He had nothing to hide. The original file had been returned to its cabinet, after he had abstracted the information he wanted. He had disturbed no one—he had left no particular trail.

In fact, he had simply tried to be circumspect, knowing Chief Superintendent Bowles would be the first to be annoyed by any resurrection of his own past—the inquiry that had begun his climb to his present position.

No. It wasn’t Bowles; there would be no reason for him to come to Rutledge’s office. If he’d needed a folder, he would have sent someone else to locate it.

And whoever it was, no doubt in a hurry, had sifted through the drawer’s contents with only one thing on his mind: satisfying Bowles.

Rutledge went through his entire desk with great care. As far as he could determine, nothing was missing. The files he was presently working on were as he’d left them. Whatever had been taken must also have been returned.

Coincidence.

It was the only explanation. . . .

But neither he nor Hamish found it satisfactory.