A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [101]
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