A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [26]
“Elizabeth?” he asked, wondering if that was why Mrs. Crawford had sent her out of the room.
But Melinda Crawford shook her head, frowning. “No, Elizabeth isn’t right for you, my dear, and I hope you have no thoughts in that direction. Besides—I rather think her fancy lies elsewhere.”
His eyebrows flew up in surprise. Was that what had been on the tip of Elizabeth’s tongue at breakfast that morning, before the news of another murder had spoiled the chance to speak to him? He wondered. Bella Masters had also hinted at other attachments.
Watching his face, Melinda Crawford nodded in satisfaction. As if pleased to discover no attachment here. He knew she was fond of Elizabeth, and was amused.
Still, he was slow answering, unable to tell her why he could never offer marriage to any woman. How would she—could she—share his life with Hamish?
Then, hearing footsteps coming down the stairs, his hostess said in a low voice, rapidly and with an intensity that was unlike her, “Remember one thing, Ian. I have seen war at its worst. Nothing you can tell me will shock me or disturb me. If you ever find you need to talk about things best forgotten, I shall be here. For a time, at least. Don’t leave it too long!”
THE BOX, INLAID marble, contained photographs of a garden party Mrs. Crawford had given nearly thirty years ago, and Rutledge recognized his parents among the faces, his father stooping over his mother with loving attention as he brought a plate of food to her table. His sister Frances, in a trailing lacy gown that all but swallowed her, stared at the camera with sober curiosity. Richard was there, a fair smiling child with girlish curls to his shoulders, his pose already exhibiting that sturdy, masculine grace that had made him a natural athlete and one of the finest cricket bowlers in Kent. Rutledge sat astride a pony, his shoes dangling high above the stirrups, his face half hidden by a pith helmet tipped over one eye. Mrs. Crawford, in an elegant hat that was a froth of ostrich feathers, was surreptitiously gripping his belt to keep him safely in the saddle.
It was typical of her to have planned an afternoon that would please both her guests. Elizabeth was poring over the photographs with exclamations of delight.
Rutledge, as keen an observer of human nature as Melinda Crawford, wondered if she had also set out to recapture a time far removed from war on this day of all days—as if she knew what was going through his mind. It was an extraordinary kindness.
He smiled and tried to remember that sunny afternoon for her sake, and succeeded in making her happy. Whether he had succeeded in convincing her that she had chased away all the dark shadows he couldn’t tell.
Hamish said, “I wouldna’ wager my pay on it.”
ON HIS RETURN to London on the evening of Wednesday, twelve November, Rutledge went directly to the Yard instead of his flat. At this hour, in a city the size of London, the police presence at the Yard was as strong as it was at midday, and he was greeted jovially as he strode down the passage to his office.
Sergeant Gibson, whose irascible manner concealed a very clever mind, said, “’Ware the wolf at the door!” as he passed.
And Inspector Raeburn paused to warn, “If you’ve come for peace and quiet, better leave now.”
Indeed, there was an air of orchestrated urgency about the place. Another inspector stopped long enough to say, “Old Bowels scents promotion. He’s been summoned to the Home Office tomorrow, possibly something to do with that rash of fires in Slough. They found a body when the ashes cooled this morning, and the hope is it’s the fire-setter, not a hapless victim. Seven firms have been burned out so far, and we’re frantically searching for a link connecting them.”
“You’ll find it soon enough,” Rutledge responded as he reached his office. With so many men out of work and wages very low as Britain tried to regain her capacity for peacetime industry, bitterness often turned to trouble, and labor disputes