A Fearsome Doubt

by Charles Todd

  Hamish had his own view. “It’s the deid on your conscience that torment you. No’ the German. You havena’ made peace wi’ the ghosts.”

  “I killed them. I counted the dead that unspeakably long night before you were shot. Someone ought to have put me up before a firing squad—for murder! They were hardly more than boys—when they lay wounded or dying, they called for their mothers! It was slaughter, and I couldn’t tell them.”

  “No,” Hamish answered tiredly. “It was better to die believing they were no’ wasting their lives. It was better for their families to feel it wasna’ in vain. The cruelty was knowing, as you and I did. It’s the reason you willna’ face the Shaw case—he was defeated, and died a broken man. And you see yourself in him!”

  Rutledge said, “You weren’t there. You don’t know.”

  “I wasna’ there,” Hamish agreed. “But Jimsy Ridger is deid, and if yon German didna’ kill him, he still could ha’ killed the ithers.”

  In the end Rutledge went to the police station and sought out Inspector Dowling.

  Without preamble, he said, “I’d like to pose a theoretical question.”

  “Theoretical, is it?” Dowling asked, regarding his counterpart from London with curiosity.

  Rutledge took the chair across from Dowling’s desk. “If you were on the roads outside Marling last night, and someone attacked you, would you report it?”

  Dowling frowned. “Most people would, I think. Were there theoretical wounds?”

  “Let’s assume there were.”

  “Well, then, the doctor would be your first thought. After that, it’s out of your hands, isn’t it? The doctor will be reporting to the police, anyway.”

  “And what about the attacker? What would he do?”

  “Go home and pretend nothing has happened. As he may have done three times before.”

  “What if he isn’t the killer we’re after? What if he attacked out of what he saw as self-defense—a terrified man striking first, for fear of becoming victim number four? In the dark, our theoretical man might have seemed threatening, or appeared to be deliberately following him. An honest mistake, as it were.”

  “He’d still go to ground.” Dowling rubbed his chin. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been afraid something like this might happen. But strike, you say. As with a cane? A knife? A pitchfork?”

  Rutledge smiled. “Strike as in assault. Theory doesn’t disclose further details. We’ll have to find this man and ask him.”

  “Why not find the victim first? If he’s still alive, he’s a witness.”

  “The victim has his own secrets. He won’t come forward of his own accord.”

  Dowling said, “I should think, considering this theory of yours, that the hands of the police are tied. I don’t care for that. There are men dead, after all.”

  “If,” Rutledge said, “the victim here is a red herring—and there may be reasons to think so—to bring him forward would overshadow the search for the real murderer. People would be eager to believe it’s over, and let down their guard.”

  Dowling leaned forward in his chair, staring at the Londoner. “If you’ve made up your mind, why tell me this cock-and-bull story?”

  “Because,” Rutledge answered, unsmiling, “I don’t want to be seen as going behind your back. But for various reasons, it’s best for the theoretical attack to be kept quiet. At the same time, I need to hear any rumors or gossip that might begin to float about. And you need to know how to listen for them.”

  “I don’t like working in the dark!”

  “You aren’t.” Rutledge got to his feet. “Find out, if you can, who was on the Marling road last night near a burned-out oast house, and why he was armed, and what made him strike first. The theoretical loose ends.” He waited, wondering if he’d misjudged his man. Wondering, in truth, where Dowling would stand—with him or against him.

  Hamish predicted grimly, “He will stand wi’ ye—for now. And then turn on you.”

  There was a strong possibility of that.

  Dowling studied Rutledge for several seconds. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ve not been able to solve these murders on my own. That’s why the Chief Constable sent for you. I’ll find the answers to your questions. But by God, when I do, I’ll expect the answers to mine!”

  “Fair enough,” Rutledge replied. “You might begin with our drunk from Seelyham.” And then, earnestly, he added, “If I tell you the whole story, people are going to jump to conclusions that will only muddle the facts. I need your help, but I don’t want it prejudiced by my suspicions. There’s probably enough circumstantial evidence to charge my theoretical victim, but when we do, the real killer will be the one who goes to ground. And the chances are, we won’t winkle him out again.”

  “You’ve an odd way of putting it, but I see your point,” Dowling answered reluctantly. “On the other hand, I heard from London that you were a secretive bastard who played his own game. Perhaps there’s more to that than I was ready to believe.”

  Rutledge smiled. “Not secretive. Merely careful. You’ll still be in charge here long after I’m gone. If I’m wrong, you won’t be brought down with me.”

  HE WENT BACK to the hotel and made an effort to sleep for a few hours. But his usual ability to close his eyes and ignore the world around him eluded him, and for a time Rutledge lay there on the bed, rigid, one arm flung over his closed eyes, and his mind wrestling with one image after another. He could feel the tension in his bones, and for a while he thought he would never sleep again.

  It began to occur to him that there was one grain of good in the disaster of his war. A single saving grace. He knew now he’d never abandoned his men before the fighting ended. He hadn’t walked away from the line while they were dying. Whatever else he had been and done, he had not forsaken them.

  And with that, he drifted into a restless sleep.

  It was sometime later that he was summoned to the lounge. Elizabeth Mayhew was waiting there. She was beyond anguish now, her eyes burning in a pale face, her hands tightly gripped together as if to keep them from shaking.

  “I’ve looked everywhere. I telephoned the hotel in Rochester. There’s no one registered under that name . . .”

  He sat down on the small footstool beside her chair. “What name do you know him by?”

  “Gunter Hauser, of course!”

  “Has he ever shown you his papers?”

  “No, why should he? Do you go about showing people yours?” She remembered that he was a policeman. “I mean, at dinner parties or a cricket match?”

  “Of course not.” Looking at her dark blue coat and the patterned silk of her collar, he was reminded of the Shaws and their faded, ill-fitting clothes. And that reminded him in turn of something that Melinda Crawford had told him. “Did Hauser give you the gift of a silk shawl?”

  Elizabeth turned her head. “It’s none of your business.”

  Which answered his question. “You know he was married? And that he has children?”

  Her eyes came back to his. “It doesn’t make any difference. What kind of life will I have as Richard’s widow? Shall I travel, as Melinda Crawford did after her husband was killed? Or take up charity work? Set my cap for someone like you, who was Richard’s friend long before he was mine, because I’d rather have a safe marriage and children than none at all? You don’t know what it’s like, Ian, you aren’t a woman! It’s so easy for you to find love!”

  Was it? He said only, “I’m not criticizing you, Elizabeth. I am trying to protect you. What if this man is a murderer? I’ve got witnesses who could identify him, people who will swear that he’s been stopping ex-soldiers and asking them for information about Jimsy Ridger. It casts a very bad light on his activities, when there’ve been murders among this same group of men. If you love him, of course I’ll do what I can for him. But if he’s guilty of murder, I can’t let him walk free! Nor should you expect me to.”

  She seemed to shrink into herself, suddenly small and
defenseless and very afraid in the overlarge chair. “Oh, Ian, how did we ever come to this?”

  He could see the tears in her eyes. And the sorrow. He didn’t have an answer to give her.

  “If Richard had only come home, none of this would have mattered, would it?” she asked. “But he didn’t, and I have to accept it and try to forget and look out for my own future. Gunter is a man very like Richard, you know. In many ways. He likes music and books and poetry, and he loved his farm. He’s described it to me—how the brick house and barn form one great building, how smoky the chimneys are when it rains for days, how the windmills keep the land drained, so that crops can grow, how he hunted ducks along the canals when he was young.”

  “He’s not Dutch, Elizabeth. He’s German. He must have been describing his cousin’s way of life, not his own. The papers he carries belong to his cousin. They aren’t his, either.”

  Elizabeth stared at him, appalled. “No! It isn’t true—”

  “I—saw him during the war, my dear. He was a German officer. There’s absolutely no doubt about that fact.”

  She began to cry, the tears spilling through her lashes, her eyes awash. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll never forgive you,” she whispered. “Never!”

  He reached out to take her hands in his, but she pulled them away, tucking them around her out of sight.

  Rutledge offered her his handkerchief and after a moment added, “I think you should go to stay with Mrs. Crawford for a few days. It would be best. She’ll be happy for the company.”

  She fumbled with the handkerchief then, and wiped her eyes. “I’ve got to go somewhere. I can’t bear to walk into that house now, where his blood was all over the floor, and Richard’s memory is everywhere I look.”

  “I’ll drive you, if you like.”

  “I’ve made a terrible fool of myself, haven’t I?” Her eyes begged for a denial.

  “No. I think you were ready for comfort and love and warmth again. I’m sorry it isn’t possible.” He stood up, looking down at her. “I’ll take you home, and then come back in an hour—two—and drive you to Mrs. Crawford’s.”

  “What will you tell her?”

  “I won’t tell her anything. She won’t ask why you’re there. She never does. The rest is your decision.”

  “Do you think she loved anyone else after Major Crawford died?”

  “You’ll have to ask her that,” he said gently. “I never have.”

  24

  RUTLEDGE WENT BACK TO THE HOUSE WITH THE STONE gateposts while he was waiting for Elizabeth to pack her cases.

  The German was sitting up, his face washed out by pain but his eyes alert. The fever seemed to have abated.

  “How is she?” The question seemed drawn out of him by something in Rutledge’s face.

  “Upset. I’m taking her to a friend’s house for a few days.”

  Hauser nodded. “That’s best. So. It’s safe now to bring me to the police.”

  “Have you driven the motorcar in the carriage house?”

  “I’ve been afraid to. Someone might recognize it. I walk wherever I need to go. Or hire a carriage. I’m considered quite respectable in Marling, you know. I’ve told them that my ancestors came over with William of Orange—your king William the Third. London was overrun with Dutchmen then. They owned land here, some of it very valuable.” He smiled wryly. “I wish it were true, but my ancestors lived in Friesia, with its heath and sand and the North Sea wind. We didn’t meddle in politics. Except for the Friedrichtasse, we’ve never consorted with kings.”

  Rutledge looked at the bread and sausage on the table. “You’ll need more to eat. I’ll see to it. Meanwhile, what about the doctor? I warn you, it’s the first step toward a prison cell. I can’t prevent that. But God forgive me if I let you die. Elizabeth Mayhew won’t.”

  A flash of sadness swept over the handsome face. “She isn’t in love with me. Not yet. But she could have been. In a very different world from this. No, I’m going to be all right, if the fever doesn’t come back again. I’d like more water, if you don’t mind. I can’t work the pump yet.”

  Rutledge brought him a pitcher of water. “More whisky?”

  “No, it’s making my head thunder.” Hauser paused. “Look. Why should I have killed those men? It’s Ridger I’m searching for. Do I give the impression I’m someone who would be overcome by a murderous fit of temper? Laudanum isn’t hot-blooded enough for that!”

  “Ridger is dead,” Rutledge told him. “Buried in Maidstone, where he was born. I doubt you’ll find your cup. His sort would have sold it long ago.”

  Hauser sighed. “I’d thought about that.” His face wreathed in a self-deprecating smile, he added, “On the other hand, I might have got those men drunk in the hope they’d tell me what they knew about Ridger—and then misjudged how much would kill them.”

  “I don’t know why you killed them,” Rutledge replied. “Yet. Revenge, perhaps? All three served with Ridger. That cup is a very good story—but I have only your word that it exists. And so far, your lies have been plentiful and extremely persuasive. But they’re beginning to catch up with you.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  MELINDA CRAWFORD WAS delighted to see them.

  And there was another guest at the tea table—Bella Masters—who was decidedly not.

  She greeted Rutledge with a flush that rushed up under her fair skin like a burn and said with embarrassment, “I was just leaving. But this offers me another opportunity to say—”

  “Mrs. Masters.” He interrupted her with a smile. “I hope you’ll stay and enjoy Elizabeth’s company. There’s work waiting for me in Marling, I’m afraid, and I’ve only driven her over as promised.”

  He turned to Elizabeth, standing beside him with a worried expression on her face, as if wishing Bella Masters at the devil. “I’ll come for you, whenever you say the word.”

  “You’ll—you’ll keep me informed?” she begged.

  “I will.”

  Melinda Crawford, no fool, had caught Elizabeth’s expression, and looked at Rutledge quizzically. “Now tell me you won’t have a cup of tea, Ian! One cup! And then I’ll walk you to the door myself. Elizabeth, dear, do sit down. You look as if you’re feeling a little sick from the motorcar.”

  Elizabeth crossed to the hearth and held out unsteady hands to the blaze. “I’m cold, that’s all. Bella, it’s wonderful to see you.” Gathering her wits and her social graces about her like a cloak, she smiled. “Raleigh’s better, I hope. He was abominable the other night. I’ve only just decided to forgive him!”

  Bella seemed to relax a little, her eyes still on Rutledge. “He has his good days,” she agreed. “The truth is, he’s not content with an invalid’s role, and it grates more than we probably know. I ache, sometimes, watching him try to manage. A far cry from the world of the courts—” Trying to hold back tears, she picked up her spoon and vigorously stirred her tea.

  Mrs. Crawford had poured tea for Elizabeth, and now handed Rutledge his cup. It was hot and strong and sweet, without milk.

  “She’d have added a discreet drop of something stronger, if she could,” Hamish said, beginning to get Mrs. Crawford’s measure. “My granny would ha’ done that.”

  Elizabeth was saying something about time lying heavy on her hands as well, and turned to Mrs. Crawford. “I’ve come to stay a few days, if you’ll have me—”

  “My dear, I’d like nothing more! Ian must have told you how much I’ve complained lately about no one to talk to. I’d go up to London, if the weather weren’t so cold. I feel it now, more than I did. Used as I was to a hot climate.”

  Rutledge drank his tea, standing by the small inlaid Chinese desk that sat out of reach of the sunlight pouring through the window.

  Bella, regaining her composure, said, “Raleigh prefers a good fire these days. I can remember when he insisted that the windows be opened wide each morning. It was outrageous, but he couldn’t bear to be too warm. I’d slip around behi
nd him, closing them as soon as he left a room.”

  They laughed. Melinda Crawford’s eyes met his, and he dutifully commented, “I’ve never quite understood how men fought in wool in India.”

  “They dropped dead of heatstroke,” she said. “Silly fools.”

  He drank his tea and set down the cup. “I really must go. Elizabeth’s cases are in the boot—”

  “Then I’ll come and see that they’re carried up to her room,” Mrs. Crawford replied.

  Rutledge took his leave of Mrs. Masters and kissed the cheek that Elizabeth tentatively offered him. Then he followed his hostess into the echoing hall. She caught his arm and pulled him into the music room.

  “Now tell me what this is about,” she hissed. “Elizabeth looks as if she’s been crying—”

  “Let her explain in her own fashion. She will, after Mrs. Masters has gone. But I found out about the silk shawl. And I’m not sure I can keep Elizabeth’s name out of what’s about to happen. I brought her here, and you must find a way to hold her.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Even if I must take to my bed for a day or two. You look as if you haven’t slept at all. Nobody’s dead, I hope.”

  “No.” He thought, watching her expressive face, that he would like nothing more than to stay here himself, and put everything else out of his mind.

  Her hand reached up to touch his cheek. It was cool and smooth, like silk. “Ian. Strength is a wonderful thing, you know. But sometimes a man can have too much of it. You can’t save the world from itself. If people are intent on destroying themselves, they will. And sometimes they don’t care if they bring others down with them. That’s selfish but it’s human nature.”

  “I’ll remember.” He turned toward the door, and then stopped. “I need cloths, clean but old and lint-free. And some laudanum, if you have it. And whisky. And your promise to say nothing about any of this.”