A Fearsome Doubt (29 page)

“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, Rutledge 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

R
UTLEDGE 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.

A
T 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 recognized 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.

T
HE
S
HAWS 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.

It was a long dark drive, and weather was moving in from the east, a damp wind laden with the promise of heavy rain before dawn. Staying awake was a problem. And he was nearly certain that this was a wild-goose chase, another dramatic reminder from Nell Shaw that her husband’s fate ought be his foremost priority. On the other hand, he couldn’t risk ignoring Margaret’s cry for help.

To fill the time he turned to the past.

What had really passed between Shaw and the women he had been accused of smothering? Why had he been tempted to kill each of them? Need? His wife’s ruthless prodding to provide more and more opportunities for their children?

Hamish said, “You canna’ know the answer to that. But at a guess, he comforted himself with their condition.”

“Yes, I can understand that. Those women weren’t going to recover, and they were probably afraid of dying alone and neglected, of lying there until someone came in and found them. They must have looked forward to his visits.” He’d learned early on that murderers often could convince themselves of the rightness of what they had done.

“Still, there’s the connection with Mrs. Cutter. Was her son involved? Was she trying to protect him? Or did she use him to try to put the blame on Mrs. Shaw?”

“Aye, the locket. George Peterson could have pocketed that. To gie to his mother.”

“Yet she never used it against the Shaws. Why did Peterson kill himself? Because he didn’t like police work, as we’ve been told? Or was there more to the story?”

“He wouldna’ be the first policeman to die by his own hand.”

It was true. After the first long months of working with the worst of human nature, of seeing violent death and recognizing evil for what it was, a callous disregard for the lives and property of others, either a policeman developed a hard shell against the nightmare of his job or he began to drink. Sometimes when the shell cracked or the drinking failed to dull the mind, a man withdrew into himself, and built not a shell but a wall against any emotion at all. Or he put an end to all of it.

Rutledge himself, drawn to law enforcement because of a firm belief that the police had the power to give the dead a voice, to offer in a courtroom the evidence of the scene and the body, had discovered soon enough that he was losing his objectivity. And it had been a long, difficult climb to a level of professionalism that had allowed him to function without losing his humanity.

Young George Peterson might never have succeeded in reaching that level. . . .

As the lights of London came closer and he could see the city shining in the misting rain, the smell of the river borne on the wind and the heavy odor of coal fires hanging between the clouds and the rooftops, he turned toward Sansom Street and finally pulled up in front of the Shaw house.

Every light seemed to be burning, the house startlingly lit like a beacon. In the West End, it would signify a party. In Number 14, Sansom Street, it was an omen.

Rutledge got out of the motorcar and stretched his shoulders, postponing the moment of walking up to the door and lifting the knocker.

Margaret Shaw was there as if she had been waiting just on the other side, and he walked into the narrow hall.

A passage led to the back of the house, with narrow stairs climbing to his right and doors into rooms standing open on his left.

Margaret was in tears, her face red and streaked, as if she’d been crying for hours.

“Mama is upstairs,” she said. “I’ve been that frantic. I think it’s her
heart
!”

“You should have called a doctor, not me,” he said, and then regretted it.

“The doctor came,” Margaret told him. “And left. He said it was something she’s eaten. He gave her a digestive powder—she won’t touch it, she says it’s poison, and she just lies there clutching her chest and asking God why he deserted her.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“Mama sent him to stay with a friend. I don’t know what excuse she made, but they agreed to keep him for a day or two.”

Rutledge followed Margaret up the stairs and into a bedroom that faced the street.

The bedclothes were rumpled and tossed, half on the floor, half covering the fully clothed woman lying in their midst. Her hair was a bird’s nest, tangled and spiked with sweat, her shirtwaist and her skirt wrinkled and twisted.

As he walked toward the bed, she turned her head to see who was there, and froze.

“Dear my God!” she cried, staring at him, and sat up with such hope blazing in her eyes that Rutledge turned away.

He said to Margaret, “Bring your mother water and towels. A brush for her hair. Then put her in that chair—” He gestured to the single chair by the door. “I’ll wait downstairs.”

“No—!”

“Mrs. Shaw, for your own sake and your daughter’s—you’re in no state—”

Nell Shaw stretched out her hand. “No, don’t leave me! You’ve got to help me. I can’t do it all myself. I can’t anymore!”

“Mrs. Shaw—”

“What does it matter to them? Janet Cutter is dead. Her son George is dead—It won’t matter to them if the slate is wiped clean for my Ben, and their names are substituted for his!”

“I can’t perjure myself—”

“Is it perjury? Look at my girl! Am I to put a dead woman ahead of my living flesh? It
could
have been that bitch next door! It could have been her as easy as it could have been my Ben! And they can’t hang
her,
can they? They won’t dig up her corpse and hang her in the prison yard! All you have to do is tell the police that you was wrong, that there’s proof now that she did the murders—”

“They’ll want to know how she did it—what opportunity she had.
Why
she should have killed the women—there had to be a
reason—
”

“Her son, then! Good God, he’s a suicide, he must have had it on his conscience, and after my Ben was hanged, he couldn’t bear it any longer—he took his own life.” She was on her knees on the mattress, begging. “There’s the locket, you saw it! Love—in the tall chest there, the top drawer! Give it to him and let him take it to the Yard. He can tell them what the truth is, and get the verdict reversed, and clear your father’s name.
Give it to him!
”

Margaret went to the drawer and opened it, her hands trembling as she searched among the handkerchiefs and gloves. Finding what she sought, she brought it to Rutledge, her face strained and on the verge of tears again.

Rutledge opened the handkerchief to look at the contents. The locket fell through his fingers and onto the floor. As he bent to retrieve it, cold metal and stone in his hand, he thought,
God forgive me. I don’t know what to do!

And yet he did. Out of the shadows had come an answer. The only answer he had failed to explore. He had examined the possibility of the Cutters—of Janet Cutter’s dead son—even of Mrs. Shaw herself being the true killer. He had never looked at Ben Shaw, except as a victim. . . .