A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [112]
“I don’t know,” Rutledge answered as their first course was set before them. The dining room was filling up, with market-goers coming in for their meal.
“I can’t see what reason he might have had for murder. The monetary value of that cup is all well and good—”
“After the cup was stolen, his brother was killed in action.”
“Revenge.” She considered the possibility. “But a cold revenge, don’t you think? Without passion or satisfaction.”
“Hauser said much the same thing.”
“I lived in the East for a very long time, Ian. I suppose I’ve absorbed a little of their way of thinking. To kill in this fashion—with wine and then laudanum—you must apply yourself to the task. You must watch and weigh. Enough? Too little, and the victim will live to describe how he came so close to death’s door. Too much, and the victim empties the contents of his stomach before the drug has been effective. I think the question you need to ask yourself is why anyone would do such a thing. It’s far more grim, in my view, than using a weapon.”
It was an interesting point. But where did it lead?
As if she’d read his mind, Melinda Crawford said meditatively, “It would suggest that your killer is mad. Or that he derives some satisfaction from watching the process of death. As if to acquaint himself with it . . .”
Hamish said, “She’s no’ so verra’ far from death herself. She spoke no’ so verra’ long ago of her will—”
Rutledge heard him.
He couldn’t remember the rest of his meal. The conversation had taken another turn, this time to less dramatic topics, but in the back of his mind, he couldn’t shut out the words tumbling over and over, like stones.
“As if to acquaint himself with it . . .”
26
RUTLEDGE WENT TO THE POLICE STATION AFTER DRIVING Melinda Crawford back to her house.
Gunter Hauser was sleeping, but he heard the door to his cell open. Without opening his eyes, he said, “The doctor praised your handiwork. And asked me repeatedly who had seen to the wound. Should I tell him?”
“Elizabeth expected you to take the train to London.”
“Yes, well, she’ll be very disappointed.” He opened his eyes and sat up stiffly. “A bargain, Mr. Rutledge. We both have secrets, you and I. I would be very happy to keep yours, if you keep mine.”
“Early days to decide that.” There was a single chair in the room, and Rutledge hooked it with his foot, then sat down.
“I asked Dowling. He says there’s been no progress on finding your attacker.”
“You can hardly think I wounded myself!”
“Hardly. No, I’m of the opinion he’s not going to surface. He’s no fool; he can’t be sure who he slashed.”
“Yon drunk you questioned,” Hamish pointed out, “is a verra’ strong possibility. In the dark, he may have mistaken Hauser for you.”
“He doesn’t fit Hauser’s description—”
“Aye, well, you canna’ be sure o’ that!”
Rutledge concentrated his attention on Hauser. “At a guess, you didn’t tell Dowling how long you’d lived rough at the manor house.”
“It is one thing to confess. Another to confess everything. I learned that in the war, you know. There’s no certainty that others will see a situation quite as you do.”
Rutledge got up to leave.
“Elizabeth will blame you,” the German said. “But there’s not much either of us can do about it.”
“I’m not in love with her, if that’s what you’re asking.” It was true.
“No, but you feel a Cavalier’s responsibility. Elizabeth is stronger than you think.”
Rutledge went out the door without responding.
TIRED AND IN no mood to talk to Dowling or anyone else in Marling, Rutledge found himself driving toward the small cottage where Tom Brereton lived.
It was old, a half-timbered yeoman’s house with a crooked roof beam and a massive wisteria twining up the porch and into the thatch. Boasting only a few rooms upstairs and down, land enough around it for a pretty cottage garden, and an atmosphere of sturdiness that belied its age, it was ideal for a man living alone. At the gate a small sign next to a bicycle identified it as Rover’s End.
He left the motorcar on the grassy verge and went up the short walk to the door.