A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [131]
When he didn’t at first respond, she went on. “I love you dearly, I always have. I always will. But I’m not Richard’s wife any longer. We can’t go back to that old comfortable life again—and you can’t protect me from the consequences of his death. I have to make my own way.” Then she added forlornly, “It’s just that nothing seems to be working out the way it should—nothing seems to be right—”
LYDIA ADMITTED THEM to the Hamilton house, startled by Rutledge’s grimness and the pallor of Elizabeth’s face. She led them to the room that Hamilton used for his study and, after a nod from her husband, went out again, shutting the door behind her.
Without preamble, Rutledge said, “Do you know where I can find your client?”
“He said he was going to Maidstone. Something about searching there for a relative’s grave.”
Jimsy Ridger’s, more than likely. Or looking for any of Ridger’s surviving family, who might have that damned cup?
“Is he coming back here?”
“He’s promised to return in the morning.” Lawrence Hamilton pulled out his watch and looked at the face. “It’s a long journey. He was hoping to find a lorry or a carter going that direction. Why? What’s happened?”
“It’s Brereton. He’s missing. And there’re indications of a violent struggle in his cottage. The police are there now, mounting a search. I want to find Hauser before Inspector Dowling thinks about looking for him.”
“Good God!” Hamilton was on his feet, staring at Rutledge. “You’re not telling me that this man could have anything to do with Brereton going missing? Elizabeth—you assured me he was perfectly respectable!”
Elizabeth said, “I’ve already been through this with Ian. No, he just thinks it’s best to find him—”
Over her head, Rutledge’s eyes met Hamilton’s. “Keep her here,” he ordered. “I’ll know where to reach you both—”
“Yes. Yes, I understand. You’ll send word as soon as you can?”
“As soon as there’s anything to tell you.”
He turned and was gone, leaving behind him a flurry of questions, Elizabeth’s voice higher with worry, Lydia coming in, begging someone to explain what had happened.
Hamish said, as Rutledge put on his headlamps, “Ye’re no’ going to Maidstone! You’ll never find him!”
“No. I’ve a feeling he may be closer than that. Where he was before. The Morton house.”
RUTLEDGE WENT BACK to the crossroads, and turned for the Morton estate on the Seelyham road. In the distance behind him he could see the lights of another vehicle—Weaver, very likely, ferrying men back and forth to Brereton’s cottage in commandeered motorcars.
Rutledge turned through the stone gates, driving to the stableyard and leaving his motorcar in the shadow of one of the sheds. The grass was still thick and high around it in the beams of his headlamps—the Morton motorcar was still inside. As he switched the lamps off, it seemed that absolute darkness fell, blacker than before.
There was no moon and the night was quiet. The crows, long since gone to roost in trees beyond the house, were silent. And the house loomed black, bulky, and uninviting.
Walking briskly, he went to the kitchen door.
Inspector Dowling—or someone—had latched it more securely now.
Working by feel, he spent several minutes on the length of wire, until he had it open. If Hauser was indeed here, he’d already heard the motorcar coming up the drive. He’d be waiting, but not in the kitchen. Otherwise he’d never have rewired the door so firmly. Rutledge’s efforts had given him time to prepare, to select his own arena for confrontation.
If he was here. And not in Maidstone, minding his own business. . . .
The kitchen was in darkness.
“Hauser? It’s Rutledge.”
He stood there, listening to his words trapped against the walls and ceiling. There was no response. After a time, he began to move around the room. His probing hands, outstretched, found the lamp. It was cold when he touched the chimney. The matches were