A Fearsome Doubt (25 page)

“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.

R
UTLEDGE 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.”

D
RIVING 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.

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.”

H
E 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.”