A Fearsome Doubt

by Charles Todd

  Which was true.

  “I’ll leave the decanters here. For the pain, not to give you Dutch courage for an escape. Does Mrs. Mayhew know where you are living? Is she likely to come here searching for you?”

  Outraged, Hauser swore. “Mein Gott, nein! No!” He struggled to get to his feet and failed. “She and I have met, yes, but she knows nothing about me. I have Dutch papers. She came into the church in Marling, where I was trying to stay warm, out of the wind. She thought I was praying. We talked about the greenery she was bringing for the service that Wednesday evening. I’d seen something much like it in the gardens around this house, so I thought she might have come here. I was worried. But she had found them on her own property. Then we talked about the flatness of Holland, and the tulips. I met her again on the train to London, quite by accident. We talked about the war, and books, whatever we could think of. We have only talked.”

  But for a lonely woman, Rutledge thought, companionship was precious, and a meeting of minds was but a stepping-stone to wishful thinking. . . .

  He left then, still unsure how far he could trust the German, and drove back through the gates, toward Marling. Tired to the bone, he ignored Hamish and concentrated on the road. Dairy cows were making their way to pasture, streaming across just ahead of him, forcing him to stop and wait. There was no one with them, but the cow at their head knew her way as well as any farmer. Plodding with empty udders, they ignored him, except for one young heifer who stared with dark and friendly eyes, as if the motorcar was a curiosity.

  Had he made the right decision about Hauser?

  Dawn had broken as Rutledge drove into Marling. He felt grubby, his beard rasping against the sweater under his chin. Leaving the motorcar in its accustomed place behind the hotel, he went in through the yard door and up to his room.

  The bed was inviting, the room cool enough for sleep. But he shaved and bathed, then dressed for the day, noting that there was blood on the cuffs of the shirt he’d taken off. He washed it out himself, and left it to dry by the window.

  Breakfast was a hurried affair, a mere restoking of the fires of energy, and a second cup of tea gave him a second wind.

  When Rutledge walked into the police station afterward, Sergeant Burke said affably, “Mrs. Mayhew was here, asking for you.”

  Alert, Rutledge said, “And what did she want with me?”

  “Something about urgently needing to find you. She looked as if she hadn’t slept. Anything wrong?”

  Burke was too sharp to be put off with excuses. Rutledge said, “She had an alarm in the night. Tell me, who might be walking down the Marling road late? Besides a killer?”

  Scratching his jaw thoughtfully, Burke answered, “Well, now, there’s not so much traffic as once there was. People being wary, eager to be home as fast as they can. The gentry in motorcars and carriages don’t mind as much.” When Rutledge didn’t respond, he added, “It’s hard to say, sir, without an hour to judge by.”

  “After midnight.”

  “Lord love you, sir, there’s not much likelihood of anybody being on the road then. Not with three dead already!”

  Hamish said, “Aye, it may be the killing has stopped for that reason.”

  Rutledge responded silently, “Or someone has discovered that Jimsy Ridger is dead.”

  To Burke he said, “If you hear any news of trouble, get in touch with me as soon as you can.”

  “That I will, sir, but there’s no report so far,” Burke answered doubtfully.

  Hamish agreed. “Aye, who’ll tell the police he stabbed a man, even out of fear for his own life?”

  ELIZABETH MAYHEW WAS in her sitting room, her eyes red with lack of sleep and tears.

  “Where is he?” She got up from the comfortable chair by the fire, looking forlorn and far younger than her years.

  “Safe for the moment.” Rutledge had sat in this room with Richard and Elizabeth many times. The bookshelves, the hearth, the table where they’d taken their tea when there were no guests—it was all sadly familiar. The carpet was worn in one corner where, long before the war, one of the young dogs had chewed at it. There was a photograph on the east wall that he himself had taken of the house, and Elizabeth had framed. Familiar . . .

  “I thought you might have turned—” She stopped. “Is he at Dr. Pugh’s surgery? I couldn’t think of an excuse to call there.”

  “He’s not at the surgery, nor is he in a cell at the police station. You shouldn’t concern yourself with this man—”

  She flushed with anger. “I haven’t concerned myself with this man—”

  But before she could rashly commit herself to something she would regret, Rutledge interrupted brusquely. “He’s safe, Elizabeth. For the time being. I haven’t decided what to do about him. But you should understand that he’s a suspect—”

  “Nonsense! He’s staying in a hotel in Rochester. They’ll vouch for him there, and tell you he’s a respected Dutch citizen here on personal business.”

  “Is that what he’s told you?”

  She began to pace the floor. Rutledge silently remained on his feet as well. Elizabeth turned on him. “You’re trying to make me believe that such a man could be guilty of murder! I won’t listen. If you turn him in to Inspector Dowling, I shall swear that he was with me when the murders occurred—”

  It was like an obsession, her blindness. She believed in this man she thought was Dutch, and she would place her own reputation in jeopardy to protect him.

  “You can’t. I was here the night the last man was killed.” Rutledge stood there, watching her, thinking that he didn’t have the kind of experience to cope with this. He considered Lydia Hamilton, and rejected that idea. Lydia was a friend of the Mayhews, yes, but she would come to see Elizabeth in a vastly different light if she knew what was happening—and it would stand as a barrier between the two women after Elizabeth had come to her senses.

  His sister Frances, then?

  But she, too, was a friend. And Elizabeth would find it even harder to face her, because Frances had been very fond of Richard. . . .

  Melinda Crawford? He couldn’t bring himself to worry her.

  Hamish warned, “It isna’ wise to interfere—”

  “I’d like to see him,” Elizabeth said, flushed. “And this safe place you’ve found for him. I’d like to go there. Now.”

  Putting his own friendship with Richard’s wife on the line—and realizing with a bitter sense of loss what he risked in doing this—Rutledge said firmly, “No. Not now. Not later. I’ve told you, he’s a suspect in these local murders, and until he’s cleared—until I can clear him of suspicion, you cannot openly befriend him. It would ruin you—”

  “I don’t care about ruin. I do care about this man—”

  It had been put into words. Her infatuation.

  They stared at each other, and fear crept unbidden into her eyes. “Ian—”

  He shook his head. “I’ve had no sleep,” he said, more curtly than he intended. “And you’ve had very little yourself. I’m leaving before one of us says something we can’t take back.”

  Walking out the sitting-room door without waiting for an answer, he saw her face before he could take his eyes away from hers. And read in them her determination to search on her own for Gunter Hauser.

  RUTLEDGE WENT BACK to the vicinity of the burned-out oast house to look for signs, but even in the pale sunlight he could see nothing that either supported or refuted the German’s story. Looking around, he saw that it was an ideal spot for an ambush. Another of those empty stretches of open land. He himself had passed here on the night porter’s bicycle a good hour before the attack.

  Hamish said, “He could be lying.”

  But if there wasn’t an attack here—who had slashed the German’s chest with a knife? And where?

  Fatigue was catching up with him as he drove back into Marling. The road seemed to dance in the watery sunlight, and the trees flickered like a fan. As he swerved to miss what he thought wa
s someone in the high grass along the verge, only to realize it was the shadow of his own motorcar passing with him, he knew rest was essential.

  He stopped for petrol, then carried on to the hotel and allowed himself two hours of restless sleep. And he was on the road again, turning between the stone pillars and down the overgrown drive to pull up outside the kitchen door.

  The house in the midday light was a richly shaded brick, with stone forming the portico and steps and facing the front windows. A family home, made for light and laughter and children, not for pretensions and grand aspirations. A quiet residence set in the countryside and surrounded by its fields and pastures and woodland, shielded from the road by old trees and great banks of rhododendron that were now sadly in need of trimming.

  Crows flew up from the chimney as Rutledge got out of the motorcar and stood looking around him. This was the England he had fought for. And it was already dying. The crows might as well be vultures.

  Shaking off his somber mood, he walked briskly toward the kitchen door, knocking once before opening it.

  Hamish called, “’Ware!”

  But there was nothing to be wary of. Gunter Hauser, far from a threat, was lying on the makeshift bed, deeply asleep and snoring like a drunk.

  Before Rutledge could step forward and shake him awake, the man came out of his sleep with the abruptness of a soldier, instantly cognizant of where he was and that danger was approaching. And definitely not drunk.

  Opening those blue eyes, he fixed Rutledge with a feverish stare and said, “You, is it?”

  Rutledge came in and took off his outer coat. “You look like the very devil.”

  “Yes, well, I feel like it. I couldn’t sleep for hours. When I finally did, it was like the sleep of the dead.” Forcing himself to sit up, he regarded Rutledge quizzically. “Am I to be taken into custody?”

  “Not yet. I’m taking you to the doctor in Marling first.”

  “Over my dead body. Sit down, it hurts my shoulder to look up at you.”

  Rutledge pulled out a chair from the table and sat. After a moment he chose his opening gambit. “You’re the best suspect I have. I’d earn a commendation for solving these murders so quickly, you must see that. You’re here in England under false pretenses, and that’s only the first strike against you. What’s more, there’s business in London that needs my attention.” He kept his voice level and his eyes hard.

  “It would not be to your glory to find out in a courtroom that you were very wrong. As a matter of interest, have you ever hanged an innocent man?”

  It was too close to the mark. Rutledge looked away before he could stop himself.

  “So.” There was a pause, and then Gunter Hauser asked, “It was a shocking experience for Mrs. Mayhew, finding me bleeding all over her steps. Has she recovered?”

  “I expect she’s out searching for you. With a first stop at the hotel in Rochester, where she’s certain you are staying.”

  It was Hauser’s turn to look away. “So. She will quickly be disillusioned.”

  “Lies have a way of coming home to roost.”

  “Like the crows on the roof, which should have awakened me, and didn’t. Is there any more of that whisky? I’d prefer schnapps, but beggars aren’t choosers.”

  “It won’t settle well on an empty stomach.” Rutledge got up, taking out the bread and the sausage, cutting off a chunk, adding a slice of cheese to make a sandwich for Hauser. Then he went out to the motorcar and brought in the Thermos of hot tea he’d asked the hotel to put up for him.

  Hauser eyed it with interest, but laughed when Rutledge poured it and he saw it was tea. “How the English can drink tea is beyond a European’s imagination. But it is hot, and just now, I am grateful.”

  Rutledge laced the tea with a little whisky and passed it to Hauser. “Tea-drinking Englishmen defeated your armies, if you remember.”

  “No, it was the Americans did that. We couldn’t fight all of you. What do they drink, the Yanks?”

  “Bourbon, I expect,” Rutledge answered, and was silent while Hauser got down the food and most of the tea.

  Seeming to be a little stronger after that, the German said, “You don’t know what to do with me. I’m a problem, like a dead horse.”

  “The truth is,” Rutledge told him, “I have you just where I want you. For the moment. We can’t seem to lay hands on the man who stabbed you. Is he up the stairs under one of the sheet-shrouded beds?”

  Hauser laughed. “See for yourself. No one will stop you.”

  “The outbuildings, then?”

  The laughter faded. “I have killed no one. I was the one who was assaulted, if you remember.”

  “Describe him, then. This man.”

  Hauser frowned. “He was perhaps my height. And there was something wrong with the way he walked—I overtook him easily. Or perhaps he was intoxicated.”

  Rutledge considered the drunk he himself had brought in. Had Holcomb armed himself with a knife, since then?

  Hauser was saying, “At any rate, I was soon catching him up. He crossed the road then, and I expected to pass by on my side with no more than a nod.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “No. When I was even with him, he came at me with the knife. I didn’t see it in his hand at first. He was on me and the knife was already cutting my chest. I’ve told you this already—” The frown deepened.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I would have said he was not a common laborer on his way home. He—There was something in the way he moved. I don’t know—”

  “Where did he go after he stabbed you?”

  “I have no idea. He was there—and he was gone.”

  “On foot?”

  “I was too busy just then to care.” Hauser finished the tea and then, setting the cup aside, he said, “I’ve been wounded before. I know the drill.”

  “Yes.”

  Hamish was stirring in the back of Rutledge’s mind.

  Hauser said, “What is it that haunts you? I ask, because whatever it was, it nearly got me killed in France. And it could very well get me killed here.”

  Rutledge stood up, searching in the cupboards for a pitcher. “Will you be able to manage for a few more hours? I’ll draw some water for you, and set the tins of food on the table with the bread and what’s left of the sausage, where you can reach them.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Still watching Rutledge, Hauser said, “Is it because I know about France that you’re afraid to take me to the local police? I’ve had some time to think about this matter, you see. It’s either that, or you’re worried about Mrs. Mayhew’s reputation.”

  “Or perhaps,” Rutledge said, walking toward the door, “having killed one innocent man, I’ve found it the easiest way to do my business. Like a tiger that’s tasted the meat of a human being, I’ve learned to like it.”

  Hauser waited until Rutledge was about to close the door, then said, “I had nightmares long before the war was finished. I saw the dead come back for me. And my weapon jammed, and I realized that I couldn’t stop them anyway, they were already dead. I woke up screaming. I lied and said that I hated rats running across my legs. I don’t know whether my men believed me or not. I suppose the blood of heroes had run thin by my generation. I was not the stuff of soldiers. I was a farmer, like the man who must have built this house. I understand him far better than I understand generals.”

  It was in a way a confession, but Rutledge couldn’t in turn bring out the shadows that tormented him. He couldn’t speak of Hamish and the Somme. Or that blind and terrible walk through the German lines.

  Shutting the door behind him, he could still hear the voice of the man in the kitchen. “You will not heal until you face your nightmares. A priest told me that, and he was right.”

  Rutledge found the pump and brought the filled pitcher back to the kitchen, setting it on the table.

  “Not all demons can be exorcised,” he told Hauser.

  �
�No. I do not envy you, my friend!”

  Rutledge ignored the German’s parting shot.

  RUTLEDGE SPENT HALF an hour making a concentrated search of the outbuildings. Blotting out his fatigue and the emotional upheaval that was the aftermath of reliving his own disgrace, he felt clearly the numbness of a year ago, as if in bringing it into the open, he had released the pent-up mass of it into the present.

  What did it matter? he thought wearily. I’ve failed so often, what does it matter?

  There was work to be done, and he could do that. Try to do that. Until someone found out how hollow he was, and replaced him . . .

  “And Ben Shaw?” Hamish asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. God, I wish I did!”

  There was nothing unexpected hidden in the sheds and stables. For that matter Rutledge would have been surprised to stumble over a body—Hauser was cleverer than that—but thoroughness was never wasted.

  “And yon German knows verra’ well what ye’re doing out here.”

  It was part of the game. . . .

  But there was one interesting find after all. In the carriage house Rutledge came across a motorcar, with worn tires—and a small amount of petrol in the tank. There was no way to tell how recently it had been run. A brief examination told him that it could still run. . . .

  Hamish reminded him, “The grass wasna’ beaten down on the drive until you came here. He was on foot when witnesses saw him.”

  “And the townspeople in Marling would recognize the Mortons’ motorcar, if Hauser drove it there. I’ll ask Meade if there’s another way in here. Still, it’s interesting, isn’t it?”

  “You could move a body verra’ well, in a motorcar at night.”

  “Or offer a tired man a lift.”

  DRIVING BACK TO Marling, Rutledge gave some thought to what to do about the German. He couldn’t ignore the fact that he was aiding and abetting a fugitive, whatever reasons he might summon to explain it away. Hauser was an educated, clever man. He had been a German officer. And Rutledge was well aware that he himself was vulnerable to the man’s manipulation of whatever had happened in France. He still wasn’t sure he had the whole truth of it—or whether Hauser had simply used the bits of memory Rutledge did possess to cast himself in a hero’s role.