A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [120]
The teakettle sang a cheerful note, startling Rutledge back into the present.
Mrs. Shaw had judged him well, he thought. And with a cleverness born of desperation, she had found the one chink in his armor: his understanding of Ben Shaw’s broken spirit, his fatal willingness to doubt his own judgment.
Like a tightrope walker fighting for his balance, he had been swayed by the wind of her vehemence, uncertain, unable to ask for help or support from his superiors, a man caught in a dilemma that cast doubt on the one part of his life he needed most to believe in—his career. The perfect foil to Nell Shaw’s intentions.
But why?
Hamish said, “She learned that you had survived the war—”
Rutledge shook his head. It went beyond that.
He poured three cups of tea when the pot had brewed, and set them on a tray with sugar and milk, then took it upstairs.
NELL SHAW WAS sitting slumped in the chair by the door as Margaret struggled to make up the bed alone. Rutledge set the tray on top of the tall chest, carrying a cup to her.
It was hot and sweet, and she drank it thirstily.
Margaret, with the bed straightened up, sat forlornly on one end of it and sipped at her tea as if afraid it might be poisoned. She looked old, worn, an image of herself far into the future. Rutledge felt sorry for her.
He said, taking his own cup and going to stand by the window, “I think we need to get to the bottom of this matter.”
Nell Shaw, drained of emotion, said, “You’ve destroyed us. You know that.”
“No. That began when your husband murdered three helpless women.”
“He done them a favor. You don’t know the truth. You don’t know how they lay there day after day, with nobody to talk to, nobody to see to them except my Ben and the old charwoman who cleaned a little and cooked a bit. He’d come home of a night and shake his head with the pity of it. He said, once, ‘It would be a mercy if they was released from this life. I’ve prayed that it would come.’ But it never did.”
“Where was the locket hidden?”
“It was pinned to my corset, under my petticoat. In a little sack along with some other money he’d picked up as well.”
“Why in God’s name did you try to shift the blame to Mrs. Cutter?”
“I never liked her! And that son of hers, the policeman, he stole more from those houses than my Ben ever did. Some of the possessions listed as missing we never had. But there was no way to prove what we suspected. That bitch betrayed me, to save her precious George, and he went and killed himself from shame. It got her back, a little, for him to die almost the same week as my Ben. I didn’t see any reason why, with both of them dead, I couldn’t use them the way they’d used us!”
Hamish broke in. “You canna’ be sure that’s the truth, either!”
Rutledge said, “You could have told one of us—one of the officers here to find evidence—what you suspected.”
“Not without letting on that we knew which he’d stolen, and which he hadn’t. We was afraid to. George was a policeman—who would have listened to the likes of us?” She raised her head and stared at him. “You can still set this to rights. With a little help, we could still clear my Ben.”
“Why is it so important to you?”
“I told you—my children! Look at that girl of mine, and tell me I was wrong!”
“And what about the letter?”
For the second time that evening, her face turned gray with shock. Her lips tightened; she said nothing.
Hamish, already ahead of Rutledge, said, “That letter wasna’ to her—it was to her deid husband!”
“You might as well tell me,” Rutledge said. “I’ve guessed most of it. Ben’s cousin who went to Australia is coming home, and you thought he might be willing to help you, if you could prove you’d been wronged. . . .”
She glared angrily at him. “That’s charity!”
“Then what did this man want?”
“He didn’t want anything. Neville was dying, and he wrote to Ben to tell him that he’d always admired him for staying home and making a good life for himself here, carrying on the family name with pride. He was ashamed of the way he’d spent his own