A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [28]
Rutledge left his motorcar a block away and continued on foot, hoping to attract as little notice as possible. But now and again curtains twitched as the women of Sansom Street inspected the stranger with suspicion. He was as much an outsider here as he might have been on a street in Budapest—outsiders seldom brought anything but trouble. Particularly well-dressed ones with an air of authority.
He walked on to the end of the street where a church stood like a beacon, its early Victorian tower rising above the dingy roofs. The door needed paint, and the stained-glass windows were grimy, but when Rutledge stepped inside and opened the door to the nave, he was surprised to find the interior as bright and polished as any church in Westminster. His footsteps echoed on the flagstone as he walked down the aisle, and something large and black rose like a goblin from the chairs below the pulpit.
A scarecrow of a man, his robes flapping and his face flushed, called, “Good morning! Is there any way I can help you?”
The rector rose to his full height, a feather duster in his bony hand and a cobweb across his chest like a lace collar. His white hair, in disarray, looked like a ruff. The smile was genuine, if wry.
Rutledge said, gesturing around him, “This is truly a sanctuary.”
“Well, yes, we try to manage that. My wife had a committee meeting this morning, and I’m frightfully poor at dusting, but one tries.” He paused. “What brings you to St. Agnes?”
“Curiosity, I suppose,” Rutledge said slowly. “I understand you buried a parishioner not long ago. A Mrs. Cutter, Janet Cutter.” It was a guess, and apparently on the mark.
“It’s been three months since she was laid to rest,” the rector said, riffling the feather duster between his hands and sneezing briskly. “Her husband has taken it hard. Not being used to fending for himself, everything at sixes and sevens. Are you acquainted with the Cutters?”
“I’ve met them. My name is Rutledge. I had occasion to speak with them—some six years ago.”
The rector nodded. “That would be near enough to the time that Ben Shaw was arrested. I was at the trial when the verdict was brought in. I recall seeing you there.” He left the words like a gauntlet between them.
Rutledge smiled. “Yes. You have a very good memory.”
“In my calling—as in yours, I’m sure—a good memory is a necessity.” He put the duster down behind the steps to the pulpit and said again, “What brings you here?”
Rutledge took a chair in the first row. “I don’t know. Recently I received information that intrigued me. And like a good policeman, I follow my instincts.”
“Then Mrs. Shaw took my advice,” the rector responded. “I wondered if she would.”
It was unexpected. Rutledge asked, “She came to see you?”
“Yes, she was quite disturbed. She wasn’t sure what to do, and I told her to begin with the police. Not with Henry Cutter. It was, after all, a police matter.” The rector’s long, narrow face gave little away. He took another chair, moving it slightly to face Rutledge.
Their voices echoed in the emptiness of the church, and Rutledge had an uneasy feeling that if Hamish spoke, the words would echo as well. A shiver passed through him.
The rector was saying, “Toward the end of her life, Janet Cutter was a woman with something on her conscience. It kept her restless, even with the morphine for the pain. But she never spoke to me about whatever worried her, and I have no reason to believe it was murder. I tell you that because I don’t want you to jump to conclusions the evidence fails to support.”
“Did you believe Ben Shaw was a murderer?” Rutledge asked bluntly.
The rector turned away. “I don’t know the answer to that. Truthfully. Ben was not a willful murderer. It wasn