A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [19]
“If he’s a bachelor, every woman within ten miles will be inviting him to dine, in hopes of marrying him off.” Laughter met his comment. “Ask Brereton, here. He’s never at a loss for a way to spend his evenings.”
Brereton answered, “If he’s a rich bachelor, he’ll have the edge. I’ll be forgotten in a day.”
“It’s a beautiful house,” Elizabeth commented. “I’m glad someone will live there again.” For Rutledge’s benefit she added, “The last of the family died of influenza a year ago—Oliver Hendricks. He always offered us the pick of his gardens for the church. Oliver lost both sons in the war, poor man. Richard knew both of them well.”
Rutledge himself remembered Walter and John Hendricks, but said nothing. What was there to say? Death had not played favorites. . . .
It was after the ladies had withdrawn for tea and the port was being passed that Masters returned to the subject of murder.
“I can’t understand,” he demanded, “why the Yard hasn’t been more forward in this business. Two bodies in a matter of weeks!”
“I’m afraid I know nothing about the murders, sir,” Rutledge answered him.
“I wonder what you are about, then! To be giving officers leave when they ought to be doing their duty is the height of stupidity!”
“The Chief Constable—” Rutledge began, but was interrupted.
“I know the law, Inspector. I spent twenty-five years as a barrister, ten of them as K.C. My question is, why does no one take these murders seriously enough to put a stop to them!”
“That’s unfair,” Lawrence Hamilton put in. “You have to remember—”
“I remember only that invalided soldiers are dying, and no one seems to care,” Masters retorted. “When my mentor, Matthew Sunderland, was alive, he believed that there would come a time when murder was tolerated, as long as it inconvenienced no one but the victim. I daresay he’s being proved right.”
Rutledge’s attention swung back to Masters. Matthew Sunderland had been the King’s Counsel in the murder trial of Ben Shaw. Rutledge remembered him distinctly, a stooped and thin figure in his black robes, his voice and his manner patrician as he conducted the prosecution. Mr. Justice Patton had treated him with cordial respect, well deserved by a man who had served the law for nearly fifty years. Sunderland was seldom wrong when he cited a precedent, and young barristers lived in dread of facing him across the courtroom.
“It’s interesting that you knew Sunderland,” Rutledge said, shifting the subject to one he preferred to explore. “Do you recall the Shaw trial?”
“Why should I?” Masters countered.
“I wondered if Sunderland had ever spoken of it to you,” Rutledge returned mildly. “It received widespread publicity at the time.”
“Sunderland was always conscious of his duty,” Masters replied. “And convinced that he’d done his best. I never knew him to feel any doubt about the outcome of any trial.”
Hamish, in the shadows of Rutledge’s mind and quiet for most of the meal, spoke now.
“You didna’ ask him that. . . .”
MASTERS, AS IF suddenly aware of the small glass with his medicine in it, stared at the remaining portion for a moment, swirled the contents again, and then drained it at one draught.
By the time Lawrence Hamilton had described a fraud trial in which he was involved, Masters’s chin was resting on his chest, and he was breathing heavily. Hamilton glanced at Rutledge. “I think it’s time to join the ladies. We’ll let him sleep, shall we? It’s happened before.”
Rutledge and Brereton quietly rose and followed their host to the drawing room. Bella Masters looked up quickly as they came in, and relief spread across her face as she saw that her husband was not with them.
“Is he sleeping?” she asked softly. When Hamilton nodded, she said only, “Well. It will do him good.” She had been sitting next to Mrs. Crawford, and now came to take a chair beside Rutledge. “I want to say,” she told him, smiling, “that it’s wonderful to see Elizabeth out and about again. It’s time she put the past aside. She’s one of my favorite