A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [17]
Lawrence chuckled. “Indeed. He’s the same as yours.”
“Ah, but he never treats me as well.”
Hamish, taken aback by Melinda Crawford, was silent, trying to make up his mind about her. Rutledge, drawing up a chair next to the love seat, said, “I’ve missed you.”
“At my age,” she agreed, “four years is a very long time. I wasn’t sure I would live to see you again.” She studied his face once more. “But the wicked seem to thrive in this world, and I’m still here. Thank you for your letters, and the books of poems. I treasured both.”
“I thought you might like the poet. O. A. Manning.”
“She’s dead now, I’ve heard.”
He answered simply, “Yes.”
“A tragedy among so many tragedies. There’s never time to mourn. I remember in India there were so many burials we couldn’t cry anymore. It was almost the same here, after this war. And you’re back at the Yard, I’ve heard that as well. You forgot my birthday this year.”
“I didn’t forget. I didn’t know what you would have liked. Frances sent a gift from both of us. Nightgowns suitable for a queen, if I have it right. Silk, in fact, from the East. Appropriate, she felt.”
“Very beautiful,” Melinda Crawford agreed. “Most of all, I would have liked your company for a few hours. But then I’m selfish, aren’t I, when so many people are being murdered these days.” Her eyes twinkled, but there was an undercurrent of sorrow behind the words.
The aging face was serene, and told him nothing. But he had a glimpse, brief as a butterfly’s touch, of the loneliness of this extraordinary woman.
She would not have wanted him to see it.
7
BEFORE HE COULD ANSWER, THE DOOR OPENED, AND A MAN and woman came in, followed by a young man of perhaps thirty.
Lawrence made introductions, and Rutledge studied Raleigh Masters. The barrister had been heavyset. Now his jowls drooped like a bloodhound’s and his clothes fit rather too loosely. His brown hair was streaked with gray and his frame was a little stooped, although that might have been from the crutches under his arm.
He swung into the room, a powerful man still, and undaunted, it seemed, by his infirmities. “Hallo, Mrs. Crawford, good to see you again, my dear. Forgive me for not shaking hands, Mr. Rutledge, but I have not yet learned the knack of these sticks.”
His wife came to greet Melinda Crawford, and then spoke to Rutledge in a breathless rush. “Down from London, are you? How very nice!”
Bella Masters seemed to possess a rather diffident nature, and her face was worn with worry, as if she slept poorly. But there was an underlying attractiveness there, and a strength, if Rutledge was not mistaken, that was the last defense against her own weakness.
Lydia and Elizabeth returned to greet the newcomers, and Bella went on in that breathless way, “We are so sorry to be late—the weather was very bad just past Hever.”
“Nonsense!” her husband retorted, adjusting his sticks as he sat down heavily into a chair. “I could see perfectly well!”
Bella glanced apologetically at the young man—who must have been driving them—but he ignored the remark and came to speak to Mrs. Crawford and then Rutledge.
Lawrence Hamilton had introduced him as Tom Brereton, and he said now to Rutledge, “Did I hear Mr. Hamilton correctly? You’re an inspector?”
“Yes. Scotland Yard.”
“Then you’re here on duty?”
“Actually, I’m on leave.”
Brereton nodded. “I believe Lawrence said you are a friend of Mrs. Mayhew’s?”
“Yes. I’ve known her for some years. Richard and I were at Oxford together.”
“I met her in hospital during the war. She read wonderfully well—it was rather like hearing a play. Everyone came to listen. I never had the good fortune to know her husband. They tell me he was an excellent barrister. I was interested in the law at one time, but my eyesight isn’t what it was.” Brereton smiled wryly. “Shrapnel. They did what they could, but I won’t be studying long hours anymore.”
“Yet you drive.