A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [32]
“It’s true. She had no family to speak of. Nor did Shaw, for that matter. There was a sister, but she died shortly after the hanging. And I recall a cousin, who’d run off to Australia in 1900, after a rift with his father. There was no way to reach the man, and no reason to expect that he would come, if someone had tried. I was told he hadn’t come home for his mother’s services, when she died, and he’d been as close to her as anyone. Neville, I think his name was? And whatever caused the rift, it was apparently severe.”
“Was there anything between Shaw’s wife and the neighbor, Cutter? He seemed to speak well of her, when interviewed. Few other people did.”
“Cutter liked Mrs. Shaw. Why, I can’t tell you. And I won’t guess. But the odd thing was, she was very different in his company than she was ordinarily. Mary—my wife—even spoke of it, a time or two.”
Hamish said, “Leave it, and speak to Mrs. Bailey . . .”
For once Rutledge agreed. He asked a final question, clearing up another possible direction, as he stood to bring the interview to an end. “Did Mrs. Cutter visit the poor or the infirm, as part of her duties as a member of this church?”
“Most of the women have served on committees to visit those who are no longer able to come to services. It’s considered a Christian duty. Again, Mary would know more about that. She has served on most of the women’s committees—the duty of a churchman’s wife.”
Rutledge thanked him and left. He found the rectory just around the corner on a side street, a fresh coat of paint on the door setting it apart from its neighbors. Mrs. Bailey answered his knock, drying her hands on her apron. “If you’re looking for my husband, you’ll find him in the church office, this time of the morning.”
She was a slim woman—some would say bony—with still-fair hair and a smooth face, though her throat and hands gave her true age away.
Rutledge smiled, and replied, “My name is Rutledge. I’ve just spoken with Mr. Bailey, and he suggested I might do better to ask you the questions I’m trying to answer.”
“Rutledge—” She repeated the name thoughtfully. “We never met at the time, but you must be the policeman who was assigned to the Shaw inquiry.” Nodding as she placed him, she said, “My granddaughter told me you were a very fine-looking man, for a policeman. She was eight at the time, and murder had very little meaning for her, thank heavens.”
He could feel himself turning red. Mary Bailey smiled. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid I never mind my tongue as I should. In a clergyman’s wife, it’s a dreadful sin! But I’ve found over the years that if I attach one interesting fact to someone, I can keep a face and a name in my memory forever. Helpful when everyone expects the rector’s wife to know exactly who they are and how important they might be.”
She invited him into the kitchen, where she was making bread. The scents of warm yeast and rising dough were comforting. Her hands, moving almost without direction, began to knead the ball in the bed of flour.
“This won’t wait,” she explained, “and I’m sure your questions won’t, either. What do you need to know? Has someone else in our parish been involved with the Yard?” It was as if she had someone in mind, he thought, and was fishing.
“No, just an odd coincidence that occurred some days ago, and when it was brought to my attention, I wanted to put it to rest. A piece of the jewelry missing at the time of the Shaw murders has come to light. I’m trying to find out what—if any—significance that might have.”
She studied him, her blue eyes reading more than he was comfortable with. “And as the inspector involved, you want to know if this changes anything that—happened.”
“In a word—yes,” he replied.
Nodding, she kept her eyes on her hands now. “Yes. Well. What is it you want to know?”
He began indirectly. “Mrs. Shaw. Did she serve on any of the women’s committees? Visiting