A Fearsome Doubt (9 page)

“I couldna’ give you a choice,” Hamish agreed. “Else there would have been a longer list of the dead on my ain soul. I couldna’ bear it. As ye’re haunted, so was I.”

U
NSETTLED THAT NIGHT,
Rutledge considered what to do about the Shaws. The wisest course was to ask Mrs. Shaw to hand over the locket to Chief Superintendent Bowles and washadis own hands of decision. He could walk away then with a clear conscience. But if Bowles refused to take the matter any further, what then? Push that small, damning piece of jewelry out ofadis own mind, as if it didn’t exist? Pretend that there was no question about Shaw’s guilt, even though he knew there was?

He’d seen the locket. He had absolutely no doubt about its authenticity. The truth was, he wasn’t as certain that he could trust Bowles.

And whatever he decided, the rearrangement of the papers in his desk drawer had left Rutledge with a feeling that Bowles was already looking over his shoulder. Waiting—for what?

“For you to put a foot wrong,” Hamish responded. “I’d no’ gie him the shovel to bury you with.”

“I’ve been pitched into doing the devil’s work,” Rutledge said. “Any way you look at it. Bowles may crucify me for trying to find the truth. Mrs. Shaw will damn me if I walk away. And Shaw himself will haunt me until I
know
what happened.”

“Aye. It’s a fearsome thing, judgment. I wouldna’ be in your shoon.”

In the morning, tired and hampered by the restlessness that was Hamish’s response to Rutledge’s own uncertainties, Rutledge went back to the church where he had stopped on his first visit to Sansom Street.

The rector—the name on the door read Bailey—was in his small, cluttered office at the back of the church, and rose to greet Rutledge with a quiet interest.

“I’ve come back again,” Rutledge said, “because I have more questions to ask. They aren’t official; you can refuse to answer them, if you wish. But I need information, and there’s no other way to get it except to ask.”

“You look tired,” Mr. Bailey remarked as the light from the windows fell on Rutledge’s face. “Sleepless night, was it?”

One of many, he could have said. Instead, Rutledge admitted, “In a way. I’m on the horns of a dilemma, you see.” He set his hat on the chair beside him, and began to explain. Bailey listened in silence. Rutledge, trying to read his man, came to the conclusion that Bailey was not as struck by the events of the last week as he himself was. Or else hid his curiosity more cleverly.

“I can’t resolve your problems,” the rector said when Rutledge had finished. “I have no reason to think that Ben Shaw was innocent. And no reason to believe that he was guilty. The courts drew that conclusion, not I. I simply offered comfort to the family and helped them survive.”

“Pilate couldn’t have said it better,” Rutledge commented.

Bailey smiled. “If I judge, to what end will that come? Should I have lectured Mrs. Shaw on her poor choice of husband?”

“From what I’ve heard, he was a cut above her, but a poor provider.”

“Or perhaps he’d given her a taste for the kind of life she really wanted to live, and then walked away from it himself,” Bailey pointed out. “I never discovered why he chose to work with his hands, when he might have done much better for himself using his mind.”

“If his family rejected his wife, he may have rejected their way of life and taken up something more suitable to hers. As I remember, she was left to fend for herself from an early age. She hadn’t been given his opportunities.”

“It’s true. She had no family to speak of. Nor did Shaw, for that matter. There was a sister, but she died shortly after the hanging. And I recall a cousin, who’d run off to Australia in 1900, after a rift with his father. There was no way to reach the man, and no reason to expect that he would come, if someone had tried. I was told he hadn’t come home for his mother’s services, when she died, and he’d been as close to her as anyone. Neville, I think his name was? And whatever caused the rift, it was apparently severe.”

“Was there anything between Shaw’s wife and the neighbor, Cutter? He seemed to speak well of her, when interviewed. Few other people did.”

“Cutter liked Mrs. Shaw. Why, I can’t tell you. And I won’t guess. But the odd thing was, she was very different in his company than she was ordinarily. Mary—my wife—even spoke of it, a time or two.”

Hamish said,
“Leave it, and speak to Mrs. Bailey . . .”

For once Rutledge agreed. He asked a final question, clearing up another possible direction, as he stood to bring the interview to an end. “Did Mrs. Cutter visit the poor or the infirm, as part of her duties as a member of this church?”

“Most of the women have served on committees to visit those who are no longer able to come to services. It’s considered a Christian duty. Again, Mary would know more about that. She has served on most of the women’s committees—the duty of a churchman’s wife.”

Rutledge thanked him and left. He found the rectory just around the corner on a side street, a fresh coat of paint on the door setting it apart from its neighbors. Mrs. Bailey answered his knock, drying her hands on her apron. “If you’re looking for my husband, you’ll find him in the church office, this time of the morning.”

She was a slim woman—some would say bony—with still-fair hair and a smooth face, though her throat and hands gave her true age away.

Rutledge smiled, and replied, “My name is Rutledge. I’ve just spoken with Mr. Bailey, and he suggested I might do better to ask you the questions I’m trying to answer.”

“Rutledge—” She repeated the name thoughtfully. “We never met at the time, but you must be the policeman who was assigned to the Shaw inquiry.” Nodding as she placed him, she said, “My granddaughter told me you were a very fine-looking man, for a policeman. She was eight at the time, and murder had very little meaning for her, thank heavens.”

He could feel himself turning red. Mary Bailey smiled. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid I never mind my tongue as I should. In a clergyman’s wife, it’s a dreadful sin! But I’ve found over the years that if I attach one interesting fact to someone, I can keep a face and a name in my memory forever. Helpful when everyone expects the rector’s wife to know exactly who they are and how important they might be.”

She invited him into the kitchen, where she was making bread. The scents of warm yeast and rising dough were comforting. Her hands, moving almost without direction, began to knead the ball in the bed of flour.

“This won’t wait,” she explained, “and I’m sure your questions won’t, either. What do you need to know? Has someone else in our parish been involved with the Yard?” It was as if she had someone in mind, he thought, and was fishing.

“No, just an odd coincidence that occurred some days ago, and when it was brought to my attention, I wanted to put it to rest. A piece of the jewelry missing at the time of the Shaw murders has come to light. I’m trying to find out what—if any—significance that might have.”

She studied him, her blue eyes reading more than he was comfortable with. “And as the inspector involved, you want to know if this changes anything that—happened.”

“In a word—yes,” he replied.

Nodding, she kept her eyes on her hands now. “Yes. Well. What is it you want to know?”

He began indirectly. “Mrs. Shaw. Did she serve on any of the women’s committees? Visiting the ill, the poor?”

“She didn’t attend services here after her marriage. But she was never comfortable with that sort of need. I called on her once to ask if she might know of anyone looking to be a companion to an elderly man recovering from a leg fracture. I thought at the time it might mean an extra bit of money for her, if she could use it. But she was clear on that point, as well as her dislike of dealing with the infirm.”

“Her neighbor, Mrs. Cutter . . .”

“Was very active, until her health broke. We could always depend on Janet Cutter. And she was a very good cook, as well. She’d often bake a little extra and put it in a basket to take to someone under the weather. Still, Janet kept to herself, you know, she wasn’t one to sit and gossip. I put it down to shyness. But she seemed to have a kind heart.”

“And fingers that stuck to bits of jewelry?”
Hamish asked.

“Mr. Cutter was one of the few people who defended Mrs. Shaw when we were closing in on her husband. He thought she was a very different person from the general impression of her. His wife, on the other hand, was not as kind.”

“Mrs. Shaw was never a very pretty woman, but she has a very bold and defiant way about her.” Mrs. Bailey added more flour to the bowl. “Some men like that.”

Rutledge tried to picture Mrs. Shaw flirting, and failed. He said as much.

Mrs. Bailey laughed. “I never suggested she was flirting. But her manner was bold. She could manage tradesmen very well, she could take charge of a situation and deal with it, she was unflappable. If the butcher overcharged her or brought her a less than satisfactory bit of beef, she would face him down without embarrassment or tears. ‘Now see here, Mr. Whoever, I wasn’t born yesterday, and I know that that chicken is
old,
and if you don’t take it back, I shall complain to my neighbors about the poor service you’re offering these days!’ ”

“How do you know this?” he asked, intrigued.

“Because,” she said, turning to face him, “the same tradesmen come to my door, and over the years, you hear things.” She dropped her voice a level and said in a brusque tone, “
‘I fear Mrs. Shaw isn’t herself this week. She complained fiercely about my cabbages. I ask you, have you ever had reason to doubt my cabbages?’
It’s a way tradesmen have, to play one customer against another, and if I say, ‘Your cabbages have always been quite lovely,’ then the rest of his route hears that Mrs. Bailey at the rectory is particularly fond of his cabbages.”

“What did Ben Shaw think about Mrs. Cutter?”

“Ah, interesting you should ask that,” she murmured, giving the bread dough a good thumping. “I think
—think,
mind you, there’s no proof—that when he was younger and drinking more heavily, Henry Cutter was not above striking his wife when in his cups. Ben Shaw was not used to the world he married into and came to live in. He was sentimental, and rather nice. He would have been the knight in shining armor, if Janet Cutter had cried on his shoulder. Ready to take on her battles, but not to move into her bed, if you follow me.”

“And yet he was accused of smothering three elderly women,” Rutledge gently reminded her.

“As a policeman,” she reminded him in turn, “you are not easily fooled. Well, after nearly fifty years dealing with a church, one comes to understand politics, human nature, and human frailty in unexpected ways. The infirm are not always pleasant and clean and defenseless. They can be ill-tempered, nasty, and terribly cruel. Their rooms often smell of urine-soaked bedding, dirty bodies, and bits of stale food. They have bedsores and bad breath and suspicious natures. Their caretakers often abuse them, because they’re helpless, and because patience wears thin. The knight in shining armor come to nail up shingles and repair windows doesn’t last long, even if the first time he’d arrived in full array. This doesn’t excuse Ben Shaw, you understand—but it is important to realize how easily such a thing might have happened.”

Rutledge had not walked into the scenes of the crimes—Philip Nettle had done that. The women had long since been removed to the morgue, thin and small under their sheets, defenseless and pathetic. “You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that anyone might have killed them. A man. A woman. Not a monster.”

“What I found most unusual about the crimes was that anyone had killed the three women at all. Why not just randomly take what you like? A silver spoon here, a man’s pocket watch there.”

“They would have missed something—”

“Yes, but who can say when they missed that spoon just how long it had been gone? We’ve had cases where men come to the door with apparently respectable intent—selling mousetraps or books of household hints. And then finding no one at home, they break in and take what they like. Easier to do when the inhabitants are elderly, ill women asleep in their beds.”

He’d looked into that himself. Chance burglaries, an easy way to add a few pounds to a door-to-door seller’s pocket. There had been no reports of any such burglaries in this part of London for a year before the murders. . . .

Hamish, intent and interested, said, “But if they complained, the auld women, and the thief had taken fright—”

Rutledge finished the thought in his head aloud. “If Mrs. Cutter had found herself on the verge of being caught and hanged, would Ben Shaw have volunteered to go back and speak to the old women—and when they refused to be silent, silenced them forever?”

Mrs. Bailey set her loaf in the waiting pan. “It’s a shocking suggestion, Inspector. Not one that I care to contemplate, to tell you the truth. Is there anything else you wish to know?”

Still—it made sense. It would explain how a man like Shaw had gotten himself involved with murder. . . .

Mrs. Bailey had been more helpful than she knew.

But Rutledge realized as he drove across the Thames back to the Yard that he might also have underestimated the rector’s wife. . . .

In a parish where there were no garden tea parties or Sunday luncheons with the gentry, the rector and his wife had learned how people lived with the small degradations of little money, poor health, hard work, and not much beauty. The Baileys would have had few illusions about their neighbors and over the years acquired a rather pragmatic view of their flock. They had ministered in the truest sense, without judgment.

At what cost to themselves? he wondered.

11

T
HERE WAS A MESSAGE WAITING FOR
R
UTLEDGE WHEN HE
arrived at the Yard.

Chief Superintendent Bowles wanted to see him.

Braced for an angry confrontation, Rutledge went along to Bowles’s office.

Anything but angry, Bowles greeted him with his usual cold stare and brief command to sit down, sit down.

There were papers all over his desk, and he hunched over them with frowning intensity before saying to Rutledge, “You’ve been in Kent, have you?”

“Yes. To visit friends.”

“Hmmm. What’s your opinion of these murders?”

“I have none. I don’t know anything beyond the fact that there have been more than one.”

“Looks bad, damned bad. The Chief Constable is not happy, and his people haven’t found anything to be going on with. Incapable lot, apparently.” Bowles had never held a high opinion of police work outside London. “No, that’s not kind. Mainly it’s out of their line of experience. You served in the war. You’ll have a better sense of what’s happening. I’m sending you down to have a look. Be quick about it, if you can. The Chief Constable has friends in high places. Needn’t say more on that score.”

He passed a sheaf of papers across to Rutledge, who began to scan them as he suggested, “I should think Devereaux would be the best man—”

But Bowles paid no heed. “. . . Some bloody foreigner to blame, most likely . . .”

Unexpectedly Rutledge was reminded of the face at the bonfire—in the headlamps of his motorcar. As if in warning.

Rutledge looked up into the yellow eyes of his superior. They were staring at him. Speculative. Watchful.

Deliberately taking a different tack to test the waters, Rutledge replied, “The hop-picking season is over. The extra workers have gone back to London or Maidenhead, wherever they came from. I could deal with that end of the investigation. From my desk.”

“Worth looking into,” Bowles agreed, taking the remark as a course of action. “But they want someone on the ground in Kent. Hand over whatever you’re working on to Simpson. He’ll cope.”

Inspector Simpson was, as everyone knew, Bowles’s latest protégé. A weak-chinned man with a spiteful nature, he was, in the words of Sergeant Gibson, “Generally to be found toadying up to Old Bowels. Right pair, the two of them!” There was rumored to be a wager on how long it would take Simpson to make chief inspector, over the list.

Rutledge found himself wondering if it was Simpson who had gone through his desk.

And as if reading his mind, Bowles added, “I hear a Mrs. Shaw called on you a few days ago.” A bland voice, a glance out the window to indicate that this was mere curiosity on the Chief Superintendent’s part.

Fishing.

Rutledge chose to be circumspect. “Yes. Ben Shaw’s widow. His hanging still haunts her. Sad story.”

“Shall I send Simpson along to have a talk with her?” The yellow eyes were mere slits now.

“Short of bringing her husband back, I doubt there’s anything anyone can do. Even Simpson.” Rutledge paused. “She hasn’t prospered since Shaw’s death. I expect she was hoping for a handout.”

“Yes, well, Shaw ought to have considered his family before taking to murder.” Bowles stirred in his chair, preparatory to dismissing Rutledge. “See what you can do in Kent. I’ve already told the Chief Constable you’ll be there smartly!”

It was an unmistakable warning: Get out of London and don’t meddle with things best left alone.

R
UTLEDGE MADE A
point, before leaving his desk, to remove any papers connected with the Shaws. Simpson, if mining for trouble, would find none. . . .

But on his way into Kent, he paused in Sansom Street and again left his motorcar where it would attract less notice. He walked as far as the Shaw house, and then to the neighboring door of Henry and the late Janet Cutter.

“It’s no’ wise!” Hamish told him. “There’ll be someone to see, and in the end, a tale will be carried back to the Yard.”

“There may not be another chance.” Rutledge found himself wondering if Simpson had already questioned the constable on this street. It would be like him.

A girl-of-all-work opened the door to him, her hands red from laundry.

“Mr. Cutter’s not to home,” she confided in the tall, attractive stranger on the doorstep. “He’s just off to work after his dinner, but I wouldn’t look him up there. Mr. Holly is not one to like gossiping on company time.”

It had all the earmarks of a quote overheard from her employer. She smiled up at Rutledge with artless interest, then remembered her duty. “Is there a message you’d care to leave, sir?”

“Did you serve Mrs. Cutter, before her death?” he asked. “I don’t remember you here, before the war.” There had been an older woman, as he recalled, worn down with childbearing and worry, who did the heavy work.

“I came in ’17,” she said, “when Mum had Tommy. Mum wasn’t well, after, and Mrs. Cutter asked if I’d like to work, instead. And a good thing, too, for Tommy was trouble from the start. Colic.” A cloud passed over her face, darkening her sunny spirits. “Mum and Tommy were took by the Influenza. Within a day of each other.” She nodded wisely. “She never knew he went. Best that way!”

“Was Mrs. Cutter a good employer? Did you enjoy working for her?”

“She wasn’t a
bad
employer,” the girl said, groping for words to explain how she felt. “Mum said she were different before the stroke. Jollier. It was as if that took the spirit right out of her. And she seemed—sad—when I came here. As if there was a burden she couldn’t carry and it was getting heavier with every year that went by. And finally it buried her under its weight.”

“Did you have trouble pleasing her?” He encouraged her guileless chatter. The stroke had occurred after the trial. Mrs. Cutter had been well enough the last time he’d come here, to question the couple.

“Oh, it weren’t that, so much as the heaviness of her mind. It was like working in a house where there’d been a death. As if black crepe hung on the mirrors and the shades were drawn.”

For such a young girl, as Hamish was also pointing out, it would have been a depressing atmosphere.

“And Mr. Cutter? Did he find the house bleak, too?”

“Mum said he was bewildered, but when I came in ’17, he was more resigned. The Missus was young for a stroke, Mum said. Came on of a sudden, like a flash of light. Mum heard her calling, and then the sound of someone falling down the stairs. Frightened her witless to find Mrs. Cutter lying up against the balustrades halfway down, and not able to move. Doris and Betsy and I had nightmares, hearing it, but the boys wanted her to tell it over and over again.”

“Where was your mother when this happened?”

“Hanging out the clothes. She left a sheet dragging, to run in.”

He thanked the girl, still more of a child than a woman, and walked back to his motorcar, thoughtful and uneasy.

“I ought to find Henry Cutter,” he told himself as he drove on to the Lambeth Road, and turned toward Kent.

“It’s no’ been pressing for all these years,” Hamish reminded him.

“It hasn’t, no,” Rutledge agreed, and fell silent. Trying to remember the case not in hindsight but the way it had unfolded at the time—that was what was hard. How he’d felt, how he’d thought, how he’d watched the evidence build.

He had been another man then. Young, idealistic. A stranger to the hollow shell who had come back from the war and for months struggled to rebuild his peacetime skills. He had more in common with the voice of Hamish MacLeod than he did with his prewar self. That Ian Rutledge might have lived six centuries ago, not a mere six years. Somewhere they had lost each other.

N
OVEMBER ANYWHERE IN
England was a cold and often rainy month. The air was heavy, damp, and chill, and with the sun retreating toward the equator, the shorter days seemed to drag through their appointed hours with a dullness that sometimes made the difference between sunrise and sunset a matter only of conjecture. Had the sun risen? Was it setting or was there another squall of rain on its way? Along the rivers, fog could hold on for a good part of the morning, and heavy clouds finished the late afternoon long before night could fall. The lingering sunsets of Midsummer, when light filled the air well past eight and nine, and sometimes as late as ten, were a thing of memory.

A depressing season . . .

Hamish said, “The rain was worst, in France. I couldna’ get used to the rain.”

It had soaked their greatcoats and left shoes a soggy, rotting mess, and it had ruined tempers, brought out the miasma of smells from the trenches, and made the heavy mud so slippery that a man could lose his footing and go down as he raced across No Man’s Land. Rutledge had fallen more than once, feeling the swift plucking at his shoulder or elbow where machine-gun fire had barely missed him. And then scrambled back to his feet into the steady scything, waiting for the blow to his body that never came, never more than just that ghostly plucking. Living a charmed life had frightened him as much as it had defeated him. He’d wanted to die.

K
ENT WAS A
fertile part of the country, covered with pasturage and hop gardens, with orchards blazingly white in spring, and apples or plums or cherries hanging darkly from summer boughs. Agriculture was its mainstay, though there had been iron at one time, and the cutting of the great forests for making charcoal to smelt the iron had opened up the Weald to grass for sheep or horses or the plow. There was still industry along the Medway, and shipbuilding on the coast where the tradition of putting to sea was strong. But most of Kent was green, with ash and beech and sometimes oak in the hedgerows or marching in shady rows down the lanes.

This was also the gateway to England from the Continent, the path taken by invaders, by priests, by merchants, and by the weavers who at the request of Edward III had come to teach the English how to turn their valuable wool into far more valuable cloth. Prosperous and rural and content, most of the villages turned their backs on the Dover–London road, and got on with their lives in peace.

Marling was a pretty village, even by Kentish standards, settled on a ridge overlooking the long slope of land that fell away toward the Weald. A High Street ran through the center, dividing where a triangular space opened up and created the irregular square that had held the Guy Fawkes bonfire. The Tuesday Market here had been one of the village’s mainstays for generations, giving it status among its neighbors.

The square had been cleared long since of the last of the ashes, and today lay quiet and colorless in the cold rain that had followed at Rutledge’s heels. Even the Cavalier standing bravely in the wet on his plinth appeared to huddle under his plumed hat.

Rutledge knew where to find the police station—it was several doors down from the hotel where he’d dined with Elizabeth Mayhew and her friends after the bonfire. Tucked in between a bakery on the one side and a haberdashery on the other, the station occupied one of the old brick buildings still carrying proudly the Georgian facades that gave Marling its particular character.

The midday traffic was light, a few carriages and carts, a motorcar or two, and women hurrying from butcher to greengrocer to draper’s shop—one, pausing to speak to a friend, pushed her covered pram with metronomic rhythm, back and forth, back and forth. Another, carrying a small wet dog in her arms, was lecturing the animal for running into the road, warning it of dire consequences.

On the surface, it was a peaceful scene, a prewar England in some ways, seemingly detached from the hardships and shortages that scarred Sansom Street’s inhabitants in London.

Hamish, observing it, said, “You wouldna’ think murder had been done here. Or ever would be.”

“No,” Rutledge agreed, “but night falls early this time of year. It’s always after dark that people begin to look over their shoulders.”

He left the motorcar by the hotel, and when he entered the police station was greeted by an elderly sergeant dressing down a young constable who was red about the ears.

The constable glanced up with undisguised relief at the interruption and earned another condemnation for not paying strict attention. When the sergeant sent him on his way, the young man scuttled out without looking back.

The sergeant straightened his jacket, squared his shoulders, and met Rutledge’s glance levelly, identifying him at once as a stranger. “Sergeant Burke, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Inspector Rutledge, from the Yard. I’m looking for Inspector Dowling.”

“He’s just gone home to his meal, sir. I expect him back on the half hour.” The sergeant studied him. “Come about the murders, then, sir?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, the Chief Constable knows best, sir, but I doubt even the Yard can help us. There’s no sense to these murders. At least not so far. Unless we’ve got ourselves a shell-shocked soldier who thinks he’s still at war.”

Rutledge flinched as the remark struck home.

The sergeant leaned against the back of his chair, thick arms resting on the top to ease his weight. “I’ve been sergeant here for fifteen years,” he went on, “and was constable for ten before that. And I can tell you, this is the first inquiry where I’ve not got a hint about who’s behind it. No whispers in the shops, no words dropped in the pubs, nothing that makes me prick up my ears and wonder, like. There’s always a root cause waiting to be found, if you look hard enough, but I’m blessed if we can see it. The only thing the victims have in common, so far as we can tell, is their service in the war. Poor men, all three, who served their country well and came back with little to show for it but the loss of a limb. No hero’s welcome nor bands playing nor offers of work. A crying shame, to see the lads lying like old rags by the roadside, and feeling helpless to do anything for them.”