A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [122]
“I never understood him. Janet claimed I never tried, but he made it too difficult, and I gave up. I thought everything would be better after he’d killed himself. But it wasn’t. It killed my wife, too. That and Shaw’s hanging. She took that hard. She had airs and graces, my wife did. In some ways she should have married Shaw, not me. I’ve always been a plain man.” He looked up at the brightly lit windows again. “Are you sure they’re all right?”
Rutledge would have liked to tell him the truth, but again he stopped himself. “You might call in the morning, and ask if there’s anything they need.”
Cutter said doubtfully, “I don’t know . . .”
Rutledge moved around him to crank the motorcar and then climbed behind the wheel. “No. I don’t expect you do,” he said in resignation and, after a moment, drove away.
HE STOPPED AT the end of the quiet street, and rubbed his face with his hands. His eyes burned, his very soul felt dry and warped.
Remembering the question that Brereton asked him—about the secrets he uncovered in people’s lives, and how he dealt with them—he thought, I can’t pass judgment on what Nell Shaw wanted to do.
Hamish replied, “Her husband sowed the wind, and she reaped the whirlwind.” It was a very black-and-white interpretation of tragedy. And, in its way, true.
Rutledge dropped his hands to the wheel again. “I’ll speak to Lawrence Hamilton. He might be able to help her.”
“It’s no’ your business. The murders in Kent are.”
The murders in Kent—
He ought to be pleased that he hadn’t been wrong in his judgment of Ben Shaw. But that was no consolation. Nor did it offer insight into these other deaths, or a sense of purpose and renewed dedication. There was only emptiness.
Judgment had its well of sorrow.
And compassion had its pitfalls.
All the same, he was glad he hadn’t walked away from Nell Shaw, as he might have done. It would have been the coward’s way.
For a moment he considered going to his sister’s house in the city, and staying the night there. It would offer him peace and a little comfort.
But before the evening was over, he was afraid he’d blurt out Raleigh Masters’s accusation about Frances and Richard Mayhew. And that was not to be borne tonight.
Instead he turned toward Kent and his empty hotel room, where only Hamish shared his mind. That was where he ought to be.
IN THE EVENT, there was no sleep to be had.
Dowling had left a message under his door.
The Chief Constable called tonight after you left, wanting to speak with you. He believes there’s sufficient evidence against this Dutchman to charge him with the murders. It’s out of our hands—
Rutledge read the words again and then crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball.
Damn them all! he thought.
Five minutes later, instead of trying to sleep in his bed, he was walking to the police station and asking the constable on duty for the key to the prisoner’s cell.
If Hauser had been asleep, he showed no signs of it as Rutledge unlocked the door.
“Wait, I’ll find the lamp,” the German said, and after a moment light bloomed in the dark room, shadows falling across Rutledge’s face.
“Good God, man, you look worse than I do!” Hauser exclaimed.
“I live an exciting life. As you will, shortly. The Chief Constable is preparing to charge you with the murders of three men.”
“On your evidence?”
“There’s damned little of that. No, on circumstantial evidence.”
“There’s wine in the cellars. But there’s no laudanum. I poured that out, before I left the house yesterday morning, and threw the bottle into a field on my way into Marling.”
Rutledge laughed bitterly. “I never meant for it to convict you.”
“No. I know you didn’t. I’m beginning to get the measure of you.”
“I wish I could say the same for you,” Rutledge answered.
“The problem is, you’re an honest man. And you know that I am not. I am safe in believing you. But you may find yourself in trouble if you believe me.”
“Exactly. Did you kill those men? There are no witnesses here. Not even outside