A Fearsome Doubt (26 page)

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

R
UTLEDGE 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.

M
ELINDA 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 behind 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.”

She asked no questions. “Go see to Elizabeth’s luggage. Take your time over it. I’ll have everything ready.”

He made a great fuss over bringing in the cases, carrying them up the broad stairs himself as Shanta came running, protesting vigorously that he must do no such thing.

By that time, Mrs. Crawford had returned with a small, oddly bulging sack. “I’ve added some soup,” she said breathlessly. “It will do no harm.”

He kissed her hands, and was out the door. But before he had shut it behind him she was already opening the door to the sitting room, saying briskly, “The most stubborn man! He insisted on taking up the luggage himself . . .”

H
AMISH GRUMBLED,
“Y
E
’
RE
digging your ain grave deeper. It’s no’ verra’ clever—”

Rutledge had debated his best course of action, driving with a silent Elizabeth huddled in her seat staring out at nothing.

But once he committed Gunter Hauser to the police, saw him taken into custody and charged, it was out of his hands. This whole affair. And right or wrong, solid evidence or not, it was all too likely that the German would go to trial, and the case against him as an imposter in the country on false pretenses would make the murder charges far more believable. It was one thing to bring in the guilty. It was another to doom the innocent.

Like Ben Shaw, for one.

He swore.

Hamish said, “I canna’ find a reason for his killing those men.”

“Nor can I. Yet. If it wasn’t the Friedrichtasse, what was his business with Jimsy Ridger?”

“Something else stolen, that he canna’ name.”

Rutledge turned at the crossroads for Marling, passing a dogcart that held a pretty girl and two younger sisters. Her fair hair was almost hidden by a tam, the long blond tendrils blowing in the wind, her cheeks pink with cold. It could have been 1914, before the annihilation of a generation.

It was dusk when he turned into the drive of the manor house. Hamish complained, “Ye canna’ keep coming here—someone will ken a motorcar’s driven through the gates now.”

Rutledge said, “I’ll deal with that later, when I have the time.”

Hauser had lit the candle on the table, and as Rutledge walked up to the door, he heard the scrape of a chair’s feet on the stone paving of the kitchen floor.

“It’s Rutledge,” he said as he came through to the kitchen.

Hauser, haggard and unshaven, snapped, “You scared the hell out of me. I’d fallen asleep in the chair!”

“I’ve brought soup—a beef broth, I think—in this Thermos. And new dressings, and more whisky. In the boot are bread and pork pies and apples, along with more cheese.”

Hauser sniffed hungrily at the Thermos and exclaimed, “My God, it’s like the broth my grandmother used to make! Where did you find it?”

“Sit down and let me look at the wound.”

Hauser did as he was told, and grimaced as Rutledge peeled the blood-caked dressing away from the skin. Looking down, he said, “It’s not infected, thank God.”

“Not yet. It’s clean enough. There’s a good chance you’ll live.” Rutledge used one of the precious cloths to bathe the wound, and then re-bound it, this time with more finesse than he’d used in Elizabeth Mayhew’s house. “That should do. I’ve brought something besides the whisky, if the pain keeps you from sleeping.”

“Or to keep me from wandering? I could drive away in that motorcar. I wasn’t able to do it today, but by tomorrow—”

“Yes, you could do that,” Rutledge agreed impassively. He found a kitchen bowl that would hold the broth, and a spoon. Handing both to Hauser, he said conversationally, “All things considered, what will you do now that Ridger is dead?”

“There’s no choice but to go home. I haven’t the money to waste on wishful thinking.”

The crows flew up in noisy protest, and Rutledge stepped to the door to look out. But there was no one there, only a prowling cat.

He came back to the kitchen, satisfied. “Tell me, why do you think these ex-soldiers were killed?” Seating himself on the edge of the heavy wooden table, he said, “You must have known about them. Did you think that because you were whole, no one would touch you?”

“I didn’t have the luxury of waiting the killer out. I told you. Money is short. When it’s gone, I have nothing, and nowhere to turn.” He ate the soup with relish. “Men kill for passion, and they kill for money. And they kill to keep a secret. Take your pick.”

“They kill for revenge.”

Hauser regarded him for a moment, spoon in midair. “So. You have been asking questions about me!”

Concealing his surprise, Rutledge said, “The old Frenchman shot you for revenge. It’s common enough in wartime.”

“Still. You must know about my brother.” A pause. “Did you bring the laudanum so that when the police come, they will find it in my possession? Oh, yes, I looked in the sack while you were seeing to the crows. I’m a suspicious man.”

“I told you. It was brought to help you sleep. I want the hangman to find you healthy enough to break your neck as you fall through the trapdoor.”

Hauser put the cap on the Thermos of broth, leaving half of it for later. As if he’d lost his appetite.

Rutledge said, “Tell me about your brother.”

“There’s nothing to tell. Except that after the cup was stolen, my brother Erich was killed.” He looked away. The wound was still rawer than the slash on his chest. “Perhaps if we had had the cup, he would still be alive. Call it superstition, if you will. So. I had every reason to kill Jimsy Ridger. But no one else.”

“And yet you claim you’ll sell the cup, if you find it.”

“If we stay in Germany, my son will be old enough to fight in the next war. There’s always a next war. If I take him away from Europe, he won’t need the protection of the cup. He’ll be safe.”

Hamish cautioned, “He would make a verra’ fine chess player. But I wouldna’ turn my back on him!”