Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
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They went over the details a second and a third time before Warren was satisfied. And then he remembered.
“That washerwoman. The one you questioned. She sent me an urgent message. I passed it on to you. What did she want?”
Rutledge had all but forgot about the messenger and his urgent summons.
“I haven’t spoken to her yet.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
Hamish was in the rear of the motorcar as Inspector Warren stepped in. Rutledge tried to shut the thought out of his mind as Thornton turned the crank and they went to find Mrs. Boggs.
They were forced to wait for more than an hour until she came home from her work in the households of the well-to-do.
Her face was flushed, her eyes tired, but she smiled when she saw the three men on her doorstep.
“Well, then,” she said, “I thought perhaps it wasn’t important. What I’ve got to say. No one came to ask.”
“I was in London,” Rutledge told her. “Mr. Thornton here has also been helping us with our inquiries, and you know Inspector Warren, I think.”
“Indeed,” she said, nodding to him. She insisted that they come inside and have a cup of tea, and Warren, trying to quell his impatience, reminded her that he was expected back at the police station sooner rather than later.
Disappointed, she offered them the chairs in her tiny front room and sat on the end of her own as she faced them.
“You’d said, Mr. Rutledge, that if I remembered anything I thought might be important I ought to speak to Mr. Warren, here. And I did. I don’t quite know what brought it back to mind. I was doing some mending at the time, so I expect it was looking for my scissors.”
“What did you see?”
“I did tell you that I came quickly to see what the fuss was about. There were all these ladies and gentlemen come rushing out of the church, staring up where that poor man, Captain Hutchinson, was lying. It was then I saw him. The scissors grinder. He came out of the Cathedral behind them and walked away down the street there, toward the school or perhaps the shops. He had his canvas holdall, and I wondered what he was doing in the wedding, if someone putting up the ribbons and the flowers had sent for him. And then the police came, and he went clear out of my head.”
“Did you know him?”
“I’d seen him there and about. But he seemed a little taller than I remembered. I expect that was just because he was standing a little straighter in that company. I mean to say, he was the scissors grinder. The old man. As ordinary as can be. Still, I thought perhaps he might have seen something, and you’d want to question him if you hadn’t already.”
“Yes, that’s very true, Mrs. Boggs. We appreciate your help,” Rutledge said. “No one else reported seeing this man.” But he was thinking that even if he’d known about the scissors grinder, it wouldn’t have led to Lovat. Now, however, it reinforced what he knew.
They rose to leave, and Mrs. Boggs, basking in their gratitude, thanked them for coming, as if they had been valued guests.
In the motorcar, Rutledge said to Inspector Warren, “This scissors grinder. Who is he?”
“Old as he is, he gets about on his bicycle, going door to door, or wherever anyone stops him and asks for his services. He was at our kitchen door only last week. My wife was complaining that her scissors and some of the knives needed a new edge. My God, it never occurred to me to ask if he’d been in the Cathedral that day.”
“I doubt he was. But someone had a bicycle and tools. And he went unnoticed because everyone was accustomed to seeing him—or someone like him—around the countryside.”
“He’s a religious man,” Warren said. “He’s often coming in or out of a church.”
And MacLaren had somehow discovered that. It had been useful.
Thornton, listening, said, “Dear God.”
Rutledge knew what he was thinking. That whatever he himself had considered doing to Captain Hutchinson, it was MacLaren’s clever plan that had made it possible to kill the man.
They left Inspector Warren at the police station, still fingering the items from the canvas sack, as if still only half convinced that Rutledge was right.
From there, Rutledge drove to Isleham and set Thornton down at his house.
“It was a near-run thing,” Thornton said. “I could be facing trial right now.”
“Is that why you were searching for the killer on your own?”
“I wanted to know who held a grudge stronger than mine. I wanted to know who had killed the man I hated so much. I didn’t know what hate was.”
“Do something about your own rifle,” Rutledge warned him. “Don’t leave it for someone else to find.”
“I told you, I have nothing more than a few souvenirs.”
Rutledge said nothing, his gaze never leaving Thornton’s face.
“Damn it, you’re as sharp as that man Belford,” Thornton said finally. Then, “You must have kept your service revolver.”
Rutledge had. It lay in his trunk beneath the bed. Waiting until Hamish became unbearable. Cleaned, oiled, and ready to use.
Thornton must have read something in his face, in spite of his effort to school his expression.
“Most of us need a way out,” he said with a nod, and walked to his front door. Opening it, he went inside, without looking back.
Rutledge, trying to ignore Hamish’s voice from the empty rear seat, turned the motorcar toward Wriston.
There was Constable McBride to see, and then one last night at Miss Bartram’s while he wrote his report for Inspector Warren and another for Acting Chief Superintendent Markham. A cleverly expurgated version, both of them. The MacLaren laid to rest in the mausoleum would have no connection with the man Lovat in Soham. It was not necessary to ruin more lives. Justice had been served.
He was nearly to Wriston when he noticed a bicycle approaching. As it got closer, he saw the lined face and long white hair of the scissors grinder, his satchel over his handlebars, his eyes tired.
Rutledge stopped and offered him a lift to wherever he was going.
About the Author
CHARLES TODD is the author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries,the Bess Crawford mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, they live in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively.
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Also by Charles Todd
THE IAN RUTLEDGE MYSTERIES
A Test of Wills
Wings of Fire
Search the Dark
Legacy of the Dead
Watchers of Time
A Fearsome Doubt
A Cold Treachery
A Long Shadow
A False Mirror
A Pale Horse
A Matter of Justice
The Red Door
A Lonely Death
The Confession
Proof of Guilt
THE BESS CRAWFORD MYSTERIES
A Duty to the Dead
An Impartial Witness
A Bitter Truth
An Unmarked Grave
A Question of Honor
OTHER FICTION
The Murder Stone
The Walnut Tree
Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph © by Dave Wheeler / Trevillion Images
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HUNTING SHADOWS. Copyright © 2014 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been gran
ted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-223718-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-06-232294-4 (international edition)
EPub Edition FEBRUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780062237118
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