by Charles Todd
Rutledge set his glass down on the table at his elbow, and said with interest, “I’d like to hear it.”
“Yes, well, I’m no policeman. But it was a gentle death, was it not? As murders go, I mean.”
“Suicide? Is that what you’re thinking?”
Brereton frowned. “Not exactly. But an—easing—into what the murderer might see as a better world.”
Unbidden, the image of Melinda Crawford’s face rose in Rutledge’s mind. “How does he choose his victims?”
“I don’t know. So far his compassion extends only to ex-soldiers. It may be that he was one himself.”
Hamish was pointing out that Melinda Crawford had nursed wounded men during the Mutiny. Rutledge shut the voice away.
Remembering Mrs. Parker struggling for breath and sleeping upright in her chair by her window, he said, “Then you’re suggesting that he doesn’t have a wide circle to choose from. Or that he’s wary of approaching people in their houses. For example, Bob Nester, who died of burned-out lungs.”
The logs shifted on the hearth, throwing Brereton’s face into the shadows. “Or your presence in Marling has deterred him before he could widen his net.”
“All right. We’ll accept that. Why does he use wine, do you think?”
“The wine doesn’t worry me. For all we know, it’s what our man prefers anyway. If you’d found an empty bottle, now, that might help narrow the field. You could ask wine merchants in the larger towns who purchased it. No, what intrigues me is the merciful death.”
“It’s a chilling idea,” Rutledge agreed. He wondered where Brereton was taking his discussion. At first it had seemed no more than an intellectual exercise. Now . . .
“Is it? Chilling, I mean. We’re looking at it from our own viewpoint, aren’t we? The murderer may see it entirely differently.”
“Raleigh Masters has lost part of a limb. He’s very likely to lose the rest of his leg. He’d have a better understanding than most of what Taylor, Webber, and Bartlett were suffering.”
Brereton laughed. “Raleigh doesn’t have compassion to spare for his own wife. I doubt he’d give much thought to ex-soldiers struggling to scratch a living.”
“There’s your blindness . . .”
“Yes, well, it won’t ease my suffering to kill blind men. However much I may sympathize. I’ll tell you what started me down this road, though. Mrs. Crawford once remarked that as a child during the Lucknow siege, she learned what deprivation was. For a very long time afterward she felt terribly guilty about wasting even a scrap of food or a drop of water. If she couldn’t eat a crust of bread, she’d feed it to the birds—the ants—even the monkeys that sometimes came into her mother’s garden. Later, she was sure this obsession must have driven her mother to distraction, but the point is, she had to deal with this guilt in her own fashion. What other kinds of guilt are there, and what other ways have people found to work through them?”
“Mrs. Crawford is not a likely suspect,” Rutledge answered.
“No, of course not. But she proves a point, in a way. What if someone can’t bear to watch these men hobbling down a road, and finally decides to put an end to it?”
She had given Peter Webber’s father a lift home, in her motorcar. . . .
Brereton said, “For the sake of argument, how do you feel as you stand over a murder victim? You can’t be objective; you have to feel something. Passion, possibly. Anger? Disgust? Vengefulness?”
“A policeman can’t afford to feel,” Rutledge answered slowly. “He mustn’t let emotion cloud his observations. First impressions are important.”
“All right, bad example. Let’s take interviewing suspects, then. You pry into the deepest, darkest corners of their lives. And what you learn is disturbing. But it turns out neither they nor their secrets have any bearing on the case you’re working on. How do you walk away from that?”
“It isn’t always possible,” Rutledge conceded, picking up his glass and drinking from it.
“And if you’ve learned something that could be set right, even though you betrayed a secret, would you do it?”
“No. I’m not God. I can bring the guilty to justice, or try to. I can’t go around righting wrongs.”
Brereton smiled. “But there must be a great many people who don’t have that discipline. It must be tempting after a while, to play God.”
“And you think someone is doing that, in Marling?”
“I don’t know,” Brereton answered. “But it’s an interesting thought. Isn’t it?”
AFTER THE CLAUSTROPHOBIC atmosphere of the cottage, Rutledge was glad to drive away. The cold air swept past his face and he felt he could breathe more easily.
It had been an odd conversation.
Hamish said, “Ye noted the bicycle leaning against yon garden wall.”
He had. It provided all the transportation that Brereton needed to go where and when he pleased.
It was possible that Brereton was confessing, after a fashion. . . .
Was it likely?
Rutledge couldn’t find in the man’s background anything that would translate to murder. But London could tell him more about that.
Tired, he turned at the crossroads for Marling.
HALFWAY THERE, HE stopped by the trees where Will Taylor had been found and got out again to stand and look at them.
He had been here in the dark. He’d been here during the day. And there was nothing he could learn from this place. Where had these men died? Where they’d been found—or somewhere else?
Even if Brereton was right, and these were merciful deaths, there was no dignity in lying in a ditch to be found by some passerby. . . . Why had the murderer cared about the man—but had no qualms about abandoning the corpse?
This, Rutledge thought, was the major problem with Brereton’s theory.
A motorcar approached from Marling, a last errant ray of sun catching the windscreen and flashing across the trees in a bright glare. Uncertain whether the driver had seen him, Rutledge stepped nearer the verge of the road, waiting for him to pass. Instead, the vehicle slowed, and stopped; after a moment, a man got out, retrieved his crutches, and with difficulty walked toward the Londoner.
Rutledge could see that Bella Masters was in the rear seat, a dark shape whose hat was all that betrayed her gender. She stayed where she was, behind the chauffeur.
As Raleigh approached him, Rutledge waited to see how the man would open the conversation.
Instead, Masters paused to look at the stone columns and the flattened grass of the drive.
“Someone’s been here,” he said. “The New Zealander, I expect. Someone’s taken over a whole floor at The Plough. With that kind of money he won’t think much of the Mortons’ estate.”
“You’ve met him?” Rutledge asked, curious. “I thought he was from Leeds.”
“Leeds? That could be. The staff was atwitter when we stopped at the hotel for tea. You’d have thought God Himself had arrived. Service was terrible.”
“I saw the luggage,” Rutledge said. “He’s here to stay, at a guess.”
“Yes, well, it’s a wonderful facade, all this fuss, isn’t it? Even if he’s poor as a church mouse. An entrance, an actor once told me, is half the play.”
There was a silence. Masters moved nearer Rutledge and regarded him thoughtfully.
“Why are you so fascinated by Matthew Sunderland?”
“I’ve told you. I was one of the men assigned to the Shaw case.”
“And that was disposed of. Six years ago.”
“So it was,” Rutledge answered neutrally. “It was an interesting trial. I should think it would be one that Sunderland himself would have talked about from time to time.”
Raleigh stared at him, the flush of anger mottling his face like a change of skin.
“Damn you! You know as well as I do that he barely finished the trial before he was taken ill! That was the last case he’d have enjoyed discussing with anyone!”
Stunned, R
utledge said, “I didn’t—he showed no sign of ill health. It was a classic performance!”
“You didn’t know him! You didn’t have any concept of what he was capable of. How could you judge a man like that? You weren’t fit to wipe his boots—”
“Perhaps you’re more sensitive to his problems because you did know him well. And therefore saw lapses the rest of us—”
Masters cut him short. “Are you trying to overturn the Shaw decision? It won’t do you much good. The villain’s dead. Leave him to rot!”
“I’m trying to get at the truth,” Rutledge told him bluntly. “I’d like to know whether the evidence is as strong in hindsight as it was at the time.”
He thought Masters was going to have an apoplexy. “He was my mentor, the man I admired more than any other. I won’t stand by and watch you destroy his reputation for the sake of some”—he fumbled for a word— “some modern desire to cleanse the conscience—”
“Hardly that—” Or was it? “What if there is new evidence?”
“New evidence? Are you mad? How could there be any new evidence!”
“A locket has turned up. One that was included in the list of Mrs. Satterthwaite’s possessions but was never found.”
Masters was silenced. The color began to drain from his face, leaving him white and shaken.
“I won’t let you do this, do you understand? You’re easily broken, and I shall take pleasure in arranging it.”
“Break me if you like,” Rutledge answered. “Will that change the truth?”
Raleigh walked several steps away, his crutches stabbing the earth, then turned back. “It was a fair and just verdict.”
“I’m sure it was. With the information available. What if that’s changed? Would you rather Sunderland’s reputation stand undeservedly?”
“You don’t know what he went through, you don’t know anything about the pain and the courage and the sheer will that carried him through the last year of his life!”
Hamish said, “It’s no use. His mind’s made up.”
“I don’t want to destroy Sunderland. I want to find out if we misjudged Ben Shaw.”
“How very considerate of you. How very enlightened.” The words were chill and offensive.
“We aren’t going to solve this,” Rutledge replied. “If you like, I’ll sit down with you and present my findings. And you can be the judge.”
“No.”
“If you tell me that I’m wrong—”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing more to discuss.”
Rutledge turned to walk back to his own motorcar.
Masters said, “Don’t walk away from me, Inspector.” It was a warning.
Rutledge half turned. “We have no common ground. It will do no good to savage each other.”
He walked on.
Masters said, “I know about your sister.” His voice was low, pitched not to carry beyond Rutledge’s ears.
Rutledge stopped, not sure he’d heard correctly.
He faced Raleigh Masters again. “You don’t even know my sister.”
“That’s true. I don’t know her. But she and your dear friend Richard Mayhew had an affair just before the war. They were very much in love. Mayhew betrayed his wife for her. And would have gone on betraying her, if the war hadn’t sent him to France.”
Rutledge, cold with anger, said, “You’re lying.”
“Am I? Richard Mayhew, alas, is dead. You must ask your sister, if you want the truth. If you dare. Or—perhaps you’d rather spend the rest of your life wondering . . .” Masters smiled. “Now you know how it feels to see your idol stripped of his honor.”
27
RUTLEDGE HAD NO REAL MEMORY OF THE REST OF THE DRIVE to Marling. He had stood there watching Raleigh Masters return to his motorcar and climb painfully into the rear seat. It moved off, as if Rutledge no longer existed, as if he were no more than another tree standing rooted at the side of the road.
It isn’t true.
That was his first thought.
And then came niggling doubt. How fond Frances had been of Richard Mayhew, how well she’d known him, long before Elizabeth had stolen his heart. How close they had been over the years. How devastated Frances had been when the news came that Richard had been killed in action, her letters to her brother at the Front full of grief. How willingly she had faced loneliness . . .
It wasn’t true.
The man was a master manipulator. It had been the signature of Raleigh’s success in the courtroom.
Hamish said, “It doesna’ signify. It had naught to do with you. What they did. Ye’re no’ their keeper.”
And that was true. . . .
It was something that lay between his sister and his best friend. It was not his business. Opening it up would only hurt Elizabeth Mayhew.
But the painful doubt had taken root, all the same. And he tried to find a way to accommodate it, and still love two people who were an infinite part of his life. . . .
He could see why Raleigh Masters had used this final weapon.
To explore it would hurt the wrong people.
“A lesson in the cost of opening up the past?” Hamish asked.
AT THE HOTEL, there was a quiet madness.
The dinner hour attracted a large group of diners, eager to glimpse the man who had arrived with such fanfare. The room was crowded.
The woman seating guests said affably, “I’m afraid it will be an hour at best. We’re quite busy tonight. Marling hasn’t seen this much excitement since the war ended.”
“I hear you have a guest from New Zealand.”
She frowned. “New Zealand? I hadn’t heard that he’d gone there.”
“The man with all the luggage—”
“Oh, no, he’s from Leeds! He’s just bought the Hendricks house near the church.”
Rutledge dredged in his memory for the name. “Mr. Aldrich?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I was misinformed, then. Where is he?”
“In his room, I expect. Cook says he’s ordered a tray sent up.” She smiled conspiratorially. “Everyone will have a good dinner and no satisfaction.”
“Shy, is he?”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him myself! But I’m told he’s just sent for Mr. Meade.”
Amused, Rutledge said, “He can’t stay in his room forever.”
“True. If you’ll have a seat in the lounge—”
As Rutledge took her advice, Hamish said, “You willna’ have to travel to Leeds to speak to him.”
“That’s a small consolation.”
Most of the dinner guests had come in pairs or in groups. He felt a wave of loneliness. He was shut off from Elizabeth. Melinda Crawford was at her house. . . .
It was odd to find himself questioning her role in a murder investigation. It made him uncomfortable and uneasy.
Someone spoke behind him. “Good evening.”
He turned to find Inspector Dowling.
“My wife’s gone to stay with her sister for a few days, to look after her. Gallstones.”
“Painful,” Rutledge agreed. Beware what you wish for, he chided himself.
Dowling sat down in the next chair. “I oughtn’t be here. She left a meat pie in the oven. But I fed it to the dog.”
Rutledge laughed. “And how is the dog?”
“The last I saw, he was groaning in the back garden.” Dowling sobered. “I shouldn’t disparage her cooking. A man has to accept what he can’t change. The dining room is full. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Gossip for the first course. Have you met Marling’s newest resident?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t. Sergeant Burke has. In his opinion, this man Aldrich will do. A rough diamond, but he’ll settle in. The gentry won’t care much for him, but the merchants will profit.” Dowling paused. “My prisoner swears he’s not involved in murder. I brought young Webber in this afternoon to have a look at him. The boy r
ecognized him. And I’ve sent word to Inspector Grimes to have Miss Whelkin brought down when she returns to Seelyham. I daresay she’ll have no difficulty identifying him.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
“Is he a murderer? Or simply clouding the water?”
“God knows.” Rutledge turned to look out the window at the dark street.
“My men have been asking questions. It appears this man had lunch one day with Mrs. Mayhew. And that he’s met other important people in and around Marling, on apparently legitimate business—an exploration of his family’s activities after coming to England with William the Third. There will be repercussions if he’s innocent. There’s the Dutch government to consider as well.”
Rutledge said, “I warned you he would complicate the investigation.”
Dowling took a deep breath. “And we’re no closer to finding a killer.”
“I met Raleigh Masters today, on the road. He seemed to think the man who is heir to the Morton estate is here in Marling as well.”
“I expect he misheard. But I’m told John Boyd, the Morton solicitor—and Mr. Masters’s as well, I daresay—has had a letter from the heir. He’s made a fortune in New Zealand and has no interest in the bequest. The house and land are to be sold.”
“A pity—” And it was, Rutledge thought. The house deserved better.
The clerk from the desk came into the lounge, looked around, and then walked quickly toward Rutledge.
“Inspector Rutledge? There’s a telephone message for you.” He held out a folded sheet of paper.
Rutledge opened the sheet and read the brief message.
You must come at once. It’s urgent. And it was signed Margaret Shaw.
“Was there anything else?” Rutledge asked the clerk.
“No, sir. But the young woman was in tears, very upset indeed.”
Dowling said, “Is this another case?”
“In a way.” Rutledge stood up. “I’ll have to see to it—”
Fifteen minutes later, he was on the road to London.
THE SHAWS WERE not on the telephone. Short of contacting the Yard and asking that men be sent to the house to find out what the emergency was, Rutledge had no choice but to go himself.
